Fracture
by iphoenixrising
Summary: Tim Drake has come into his own. He's a soldier, a leader, a vigilante. Somehow, the Batfamily missed how far away he'd gotten.
1. Tim

A/N: This story if for the Tim Drake fans everywhere. Boo on the New 52. If the Red Robin series had kept going, where would Tim be two years later? *Warning: I don't own these characters but if I did, I would do this:*

"Red. Respond."

The needle goes through flesh so easily. Blood stains in a grotesque puddle around the bathroom, brighter since his vision is starting to fuzz around the edges, whether from blood loss, lack of food, lack of sleep, he isn't sure. The end result leads to a bad patrol regardless; add to it that he's back here in Gotham and his mood is that much worse.

These days leaving the team, leaving San Francisco, makes him uncomfortable. Going back to the streets was never the problem-that's where he started as Robin. Something about the unknowing, the drug pushers, being on the low, the gangs, all of it was exercising a different part of the brain, a different strain of adrenaline. When he was antsy, when he _needed_ that part of his past, he went to the streets in San Fran or came back to Gotham so he could work the need out of his system. Like working out a muscle when the memory starts to fade.

But, coming back has its own risks: running into one of the bats, Bruce or Dick (since he, Jason, and Dami aren't at each other's throats as much anymore: keywords _as much_ ). Other than through email, few instances of gathering to prepare for the bigger fights, listening to them on comms while his stays mute (and off O's radar), he hasn't spoken to those two, his old mentors, in almost two years. Dami and Jason…he'd come for, responded automatically when the call went out.

He hasn't been back to the Manor in as long as he'd spoke to Bruce, and he didn't need the message any clearer than that. Not a problem. It was fine.

Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Damian all back, all fighting together with Batman Inc. and tighter than ever. It was good for them; their family was finally working. So he, the Stand-In, the Replacement, just needed to stay the fuck out of it and not screw it up for them. He gets it, really he does. He's the Intel guy, the soldier, and he would keep up fighting the good fight in his own way because it was too much a part of him now. He couldn't just give it up, but he couldn't go back either. The Bats had moved on and so had he.

It is what it is.

"Red Robin, _please_ respond." The Bat comm on the sink goes off again, not like he's answered it yet.

Since O saw him on some security feed, she hasn't let up. He should just crush the damn thing; he shouldn't keep one for the 'just in case shit goes down.' He shouldn't keep putting it in his ear when he comes back to Gotham. He should stop hacking it to keep them from tracing the signal since, well fuck, why bother?

As if O has camera in his bathroom (she doesn't, he checks constantly), she keeps at it.  
"Red. I know you're in Gotham. I know the comm is on. Please respond."

She's not going away if she hasn't given up by now, but he still doesn't want to talk because he hasn't needed to. He's a better hacker. He only sends emails with data, intel when he gets it and thinks it relevant to Gotham or when she requests it from him. Other than that, he's only heard her voice talking to the bats with the wheres and whats.

He knows he's making a mistake even as he picks the damn thing up and fits it in his ear to keep his hands free. "Red Robin."

The sigh on the other end is more relieved than he's comfortable admitting.

"Red, finally. Thought we'd have to send out a search party."

He doesn't respond to that because it was just lip service anyway. A tight smile crosses his face, Dami might, Jay might, but only…

 _Don't go there, Drake. Move_ ** _forward_**.

"All right, got him. Go ahead."

 _Shit._ He knows what's going to happen, but is too busy with gauze to turn the damn comm off.

"Red Robin. How's it hanging, Baby Bird?" That voice, the same easy familiarity, kicks up dust in Tim's brain pan.

"Nightwing," he acknowledges, followed by the usual, "what do you need?"

His past best friend, mentor seems at a loss, "oh, um, hey." Strange since Dick is normally a fountain of word vomit. "I…wanted to check on you." The voice goes rough, "it was a hard night for everyone."

"It was." Tim agrees, folding himself down on the bathroom floor; he wonders how Nightwing knew, he'd been pretty far away from them during the whole thing.

"Well, yeah. I saw you take some hard hits. You okay? Get taken care of?"

 _Why the fuck are you asking me this?_ "Yes."

"… Good. That's good. I mean you didn't stick around after the bad guys were all rounded up so…"

 _I haven't in over a year, Dick,_ but he doesn't need to point that out. He just waits until the older man spews out the real reason he's calling.

"So, uh, glad you're okay."

"Yes." He's not even trying at this point because he's had enough of it; other than "get down," "he's got a ray gun," "I'm alive," "no, a colon doesn't look like that," or "I'm sending the file you wanted," this is the most he's spoken to the man in a while. He's kept it coolly professional.

"Oh. Well, yeah…" Finally, the acrobat is uncomfortable too. Good. Hopefully he'll get the hell off comm and let Tim sag against the wall to hurt. "See, it's movie night tomorrow and you should-"

"Can't-" Tim interjects smoothly, "running comms for the Titans."

"Oh well, yeah. I get that. After then!"

"No, Nightwing. Thank you but no." He's firm, not rude about it, just professional. It's the job, remember?

"You haven't been over-"

"In a while," he interrupts again, "so again, no. Red Robin out."

"Hold on-!" but Tim already taps out, turning the damn thing off completely, taking it out of his ear and staring at it hard. Usually it stays in Gotham in a drawer until he comes back and like clockwork, disables the tracker, mutes it, and puts it in before he starts with patrol. He listens to the banter sometimes, respond to distress calls or reports of something breaking out while the others have their hands full.

Other than that, he's not sure why he comes back anymore…

Still, Tim looks down up at the comm and sighs. Nope. He's been moving forward, not back. He's not a bat anymore, so he's not indebted to Dick or Bruce or Damian. They'd all gotten along fine without him, so they'd just have to keep at it.

Tim picks up his discarded harness and disables the security locks; he pops open the lower compartment for his smart phone (not the Tim Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprise phone), and checks the time. The program will run for twenty-five more minutes, crunching the numbers to give him the composition of the new drug, help him track the origins. Twenty-five minutes will give him time for a power nap without nightmares. Perfect.

He sets his alarm for time, draws up his knees to brace his forehead on an arm and breathes out slowly. A few moments of meditation to force himself to relax enough to slip into sleep.

**  
"Normally, I'm an equal opportunity asshole, Big Bird, and I'm doing it because it's _you_ that asked, but I gotta tell ya, this is not okay with me and _that's_ saying something."

Red Hood is kneeling by the hidden garage door, carefully disabling the security system. Once he started respecting the damn kid, he'd made it a point to trying finding out all the necessaries: where the majority of his safe houses were, his new patrol routes, some of his little hidey spots, the security he used. Well, Hood had gotten as much Intel on the Replacement as possible considering the kid didn't come back to Gotham much anymore, at least as far as he knew. The only one that has any kind of bead on him is O and even she doesn't have very many deets on Red Robin's exploits (something that made her a special kind of _pissed off_ that only Jason and Dick's dumb assery had been able to accomplish in the past).

"I mean," Hood continues, "he used to be a Bat and all, you know? Usually don't do stuff like this to our own unless someone goes ape-shit or something." Hood stills abruptly, "hold on. Before I break down his fucking door, he hasn't gone balls to the wall or anything I should know about?"

Dick, as Nightwing, just stares at the top of the helmet. "He IS a bat, not 'used to be,' Little Wing, and no. Not I'm aware of."

Now it's Hood's turn to stare, freezing mid- lock-picking motion to give Dick the weight of his eyes behind the mask. After an uncomfortable moment of not saying shit so Big Wing gets the picture, Jason goes back to it.

"What's that about?"

Jason snorted, and the sound echoing, "nothing, Big Wing."

"I know you're giving me that look."

"Yup," Jason doesn't bother to deny it. The system powered down and the garage door starts to rise. "I only give you that look when you say some ignorant shit, you know."

Red Hood starts into the garage with Nightwing at his back.

"It's true-" Dick starts, thinking he's actually _defending_ Baby Bird or something.

Hood turns on him, one finger in his face, just almost in the fricking lens of his domino because he _understood what it meant to be forgotten_. "Really? Why didn't you know this is Baby Bird's nest, then?" His other hand punches the inner mechanism so the door slides down again. "Why'd you have to call me in to get past his security if the guy is still on Bat role call?"

There. The asshole draws back just a little so the zinger hit. And Hood, well, Hood knows more now about how a bunch of the shit that went down between him and the main Bats since Baby Bird became part of the Former Robins Club (and, well, since Jason hasn't actively tried to kill him in _months_ ; Tim even made him a sign for his fridge. Yeah, yeah, it's there in one of his safe houses). The more sane and less serial killer-ish he'd become around Tim, the more the other guy had started swooping in to help him out with cases and fights; hell, he'd crashed on the couch upstairs multiple times, had even gotten the guy to come clean with some of the bad vibes going on between him and Bruce, Devil Spawn, and Golden Boy. Tim didn't talk much about it, would deflect like a _motherfucker_ when Jason put the hard questions to him, but at times when sleep dep was riding him, he would give some sparse details. Dick taking Robin instead of treating him like an equal, wanting Tim committed for thinking Bruce was alive somewhere; Bruce coming back to his son and maintaining the status quo of letting that brat push Tim out of the Bat radar; the last few times he'd reached out for help and no one even…

 _"Why the fuck didn't you put out a distress call on the comms? Fuck, Red, the Bat would have been here in—"_

 _The reply had only been a quiet, not funny-ha-ha laugh while Tim's shaky hand stitched his own shit closed. Jason read the lines in his face, the hard set to his jaw and_ ** _knew_** _that Red had tried… from then on, Hood hadn't berated him again._

And since he does fucking gets where Baby Bird is right now, not that it's something of his own making, Jason (as much as he's always looked up to the first Robin and wanted Bruce's approval) gets close enough that he can tilt the helmet up to look right up in Dick's grill.

"While we're at it, Big Wing, tell me how long it's been since the kid's been to the Cave for wound checks or to the Manor for dinner, huh? When was the last fucking time HE called a Bat for something?" The Hood just shakes his head at Dick's grim frown and that's fine because Dick has always had a problem recognizing _when he's being an asshole_.

It never hurts to remind him.

Hands planted on his hips, he takes a step back so Dick eases down and actually _thinks_. "You just really take a few to think about that shit, Big Wing, before you start this rigmarole."

Hood turns to start up the steps, gingerly, silently, listening for any noises that might be Baby Bird walking around upstairs because he was probably gonna be mad. He'd give it a 78% possibility, higher if Dick was right and the guy was having a shitty night. Then Hood helping to break into his place, knowing enough about the security system to be able to disarm it, would probably not be a thing he should lead in with. In the meantime, Dick must have gotten it together because he is just suddenly **right fucking behind** Jason when they come to the main door. He eases it open, using his senses like a true Bat before stepping inside the open floor; dim lighting in the kitchen area is the only illumination. Just as he happens to pass the low side table, the copy of Homer's _The Iliad_ , is sitting there waiting for him. Hood pauses just long enough to glance down at the cover and take in the newness of the copy then back to moving.

Jason skirts around obstacles with knowledge; he'd been here before and more than once, Dick realizes as he follows behind, the two moving down the hallway. But he…hadn't even known where Tim's main operation center in Gotham was, and, wow, he feels like an ass.

"Know you're here Baby Bird," comes from the Hood. "Come out and visit."  
"Maybe another safe house?"

But, the bedroom door is open and a light from the joining bathroom. Hood comes to the door, automatic in both hands faster than his normal prep-and-pull. He darts in the doorway and…stops.

Still taller than his brother, Nightwing peers over his shoulder and there is Tim, on the floor by the shower, knees drawn up, head on his arm, and asleep.

Tim Drake is more pale than the last time Dick saw him, more gaunt, more worn, more beaten, and the acrobat's heart stutters. Tim is more and few of those _mores_ are good. The dark circles of exhaustion are black against his cheeks, the hollows noticeable now that he's looking without the cover of a cowl or domino. Tim's got a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and throat that looks very out-of-place for the teenager that came to Dick what seems like a lifetime ago, trying to convince him to return to Bruce as Robin because that's what Batman needed at the time.

That boy had laughed, had worked hard, had been the smartest Robin. Now, without Dick even realizing it, the boy was a man, taller, leaner, more muscular and less willowy. He'd filled out in mind and body, marked with more scars than Dick had imagined when the kid was sixteen. Shit, it had all happened while Dick's back was turned to him, and he could barely fathom how much of Tim's life he had missed.

"You were right, Big Bird," Jay interrupts Dick's thoughts softly, "looks like a bad night after all." The white gauze pad taped to his side (only specks come through from whatever injury is beneath) is the only bandage but under the harsh bathroom light, the plethora of new scars on the bare upper body is hard to miss just as is extensive bruising he can see running from shoulder down over Tim's chest where his knees around drawn up.

He's moving before he realizes it, taking a step around Jason's big shoulders, already sliding sideways to get through the doorway. He's berating himself in different languages (already filing away the observations and pounding questions in his mental rolodex) not that it'll help anything.

Just as he gets a leg through, the phone in Tim's limp hand goes off, startling both vigilantes to jump back into the shadows of the bedroom and back off near the door. At the onslaught of dubstep, the teenager on the floor to wake abruptly and without a sound. His hand twitches around the phone, thumbing the alarm off automatically while his brain boots up again, coming back online.

It takes him less than sixty seconds to realize his perch has been compromised; less than twenty more and he has his moves planned.

With flawless acting (since he was the best out of them in any undercover scenerio), Tim stands to pseudo-stretch as if powering back on and makes like he's going to bend over the sink to wash his face, even turns on the tap. Less than a blink and he maneuvers, contorts his body low dive out the door, coming up in a handstand across the bedroom to put him right in front of the first shadowed figure right outside the doorway; flying kick to the face that hurts his foot more than flesh and bone should. Some kind of mask, so he's got to get the next down fast to come back to the first before he shakes off that blow. They aren't going to just wait around and tap each other in or out.

"Shit-!"  
He ducks, comes around for the other already out in the hallway, upper cut that's dodged, kick that's blocked, so Tim's sliding between the bent legs on his back, twists his torso to bring his legs up around the planted one to keep the guy's balance so he can put this second guy the fuck down.

The move almost doesn't work, the second guy is good, knows the lock, but Tim tightened his hold and plants his heels enough to put pressure on the hip joint and force the fall. As he expects, the gasp is pain caused by his grip and the abrupt landing. His free arm goes to pin the other leg before the guy can get it together enough to kick him in the side.

" _Godammit_ , Replacement!"  
Tim freezes, his hold doesn't even slack. "Hood?"  
"Fucking, **ow**. Yes! Jesus, who else can get into your place without _tripping the alarm_ , motherfucker!?"  
The leg in Tim's grip, the one straining against Tim's feet nudged at the hip joint to pop it out if need be, slacks a little, goes limp.

"Okay, then. Good one, Baby Bird, but let go now. Please?"

And shit. What the hell is Dick doing here? Tim rolls his eyes in the dark and takes a deeper breath. Well, that boot _had_ felt familiar.

Gingerly, Tim calls, "lights, 50%" before he rethinks what a good idea that _isn't_.

However, the hall light absorbs the Nightwing costume, Dick giving him a salute from the floor, leg still trapped in Tim's hold. Like the asshole really had a good reason to be there, and just—just for a second, Tim thinks he could…

Throwing that thought away, Tim lets the leg go, straining his abdomen to slide himself away from Dick, and gets to his feet as steadily as possible. He puts his back to the wall so he can keep both vigilantes in sight.

"All right, what is it?" The weariness in his own tone almost makes him wince. Almost. He's too busy rubbing the bridge of his nose and hiding the extensive scar tissue on his back to be nice. "Fuck. At least tell me it's not aliens."

Dick rolls to his feet smoothly, not even a hitch. Jason takes a less graceful approach, triggering the lock on his helmet to give Tim an intense once-over with his own expression sour.

"You look like a pile of shit warmed over, Baby Bird."

Because _Jason_ , he just showed he cared by being a douche sometimes.

"Yeah, I love you, too, Jason. What do you need? Intel or what?" Rote response Dick realizes belatedly, staring at the taller, leaner figure of his younger brother.

Every conversation he's had with Tim in the last God knew how long started the same way, 'what do you need?'. There was no banter, no play. No patrolling together for shits and giggles, no having each other's back unless the mass call went out from the main guy. There hadn't been phone conversations over daily life in so long. No sparring in the 'Haven or surprise visits with movie marathons and junk food. Hell, he'd never even been in this apartment before tonight. With Tim, it had started coming with a mask of one type or another; it came with, 'what do you need?' ( _and when the hell did that start happening? Why didn't I notice? Why didn't I do something about this sooner?_ ).

The realization makes him a little sick inside, combined with Jason's insight, and the fact that Jason of all people knew more about Tim than he did now. Man that he is, Dick makes a small movement to the young man against the wall, wanting to do nothing more than give him a hug, something else to lean against when he realizes Jason has a point: Tim looked like shit.

Dick clenches his fists inside the Nightwing gloves, stops himself from moving since he's not really sure if Tim would punch him or not.

Hood takes a second to just stare, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrow. "I'm making you coffee. You need it." He turns on his heel, dented helmet in one hand.

"Shit, nothing good then," Tim sighs, "I need a shirt for this at least." He walks past Dick quickly, closing the door behind him (but he hears the noise when Dick really sees).

 _Fuck it_ , is Tim's thought process while he gets a nerd T-shirt and sweats over his aching body. He takes a breath to calm himself. At least there would be coffee.

***  
Dick had taken off his domino and changed into street clothes Jason pointed out in the spare room, just jeans and a t-shirt (that are a little too short because _these are Jason's clothes_ in Tim's guest room). Jason's jacket is on the back of a kitchen chair, covering his holsters like he's still wearing them. The Hood is on the kitchen table, a dent from Tim's foot in the side of the forehead. It's an impressive dent, one he's going to have to bitch about later.

Tim stops at his system to check the results and inhales the data. He'd send it to the team later once it was actually a decent hour. This would give them the info they needed; from here, Tim could start tracking the drugs infiltrating San Francisco back to whatever foreign supplier was spiking them with death powder. Same thing coming into Gotham, probably being funneled through to go to the major cities, someone's own little type of chemical warfare with a much more widespread implication. He'd still need to go to the harbor tonight after he ran the team to check San Fran's warehouse district where he traced the last shipment. If he could get another sample from here in Gotham to test, then he could be sure of the theory. _Fuck, maybe I should get someone else involved in this, start the thing running with some ABC institutions, but damn I hate trying to get them involved in anything and staying out of the way of their systems—_

"Here, Baby Bird." Jason's voice jars him completely out of his thoughts like a punch to the kidneys. By the look on his face, it's not the first time Jason's said his name, and as tired as he is, he could have been just standing there plotting his next move for an hour. Shit, he usually tried to be more on his game in front of other people than this.

His mug has been put on the table on purpose, the spot right across from Dick, who is also looking at him with a blank expression. That's Dick's 'I'm hiding something' face. Tim just blinks and moves to pull out his own chair while Jason makes another cup in his own mug from the cabinet. Dick sips out of a plain ceramic one. Strange, at his old safe house, he'd always had a special mug for Dick. Now, he had one for Jason instead; times had indeed changed.

Tim wraps both hands around the steaming mug, letting it warm him. First drink and it's perfect ( _since when did Jason know how to make coffee the way he likes it…? Maybe that time with the terrible omlets?_ )

"So," Dick's voice is strained, not his usual jovial tone.

But, here it comes, the reason why he's here tonight.

"Still want you to come to movie night, Tim. It's good to convene when we've had a hard couple weeks… and, the Birds of Prey are going to take up the normal Bat patrol for a few nights, so it would be perfect to just hang out. It's been a long time since we got to do that." The smile doesn't reach Dick's eyes.

Keeping his expression neutral, Tim just stares blankly for a few second (it has the desired effect, making Dick uncomfortable), "already have commitments, Dick. I appreciate the gesture, but no."

Dick's brows furrow and the guy glances at the quiet Hood who isn't looking at either of them, just sipping his coffee like he wishes he was _anywhere else_ but right here.

"Another time when I'm not in the middle of a case," Tim placates even though he doesn't mean it. Sadly, he can hear the bullshit in his own voice ( _once upon a time, he'd never even thought to lie to Dick_ ).

Finally, irritated with Dick's dumb ass, Jason snipes, "goddammit. Seriously, Big Wing? Baby Bird, look okay, Dick's just figured out he's an asshole." Jason makes it sound like _how could he not have realized it before_. "You've been out of Bat Dad's immediate radar for almost two years and none of them noticed until _now_. So," with a flourish of hands, Jason shuts up, point made.

A slow blink is supposed to give him time to formulate a response, one that would mollify them both, and maybe get them the fuck out of his apartment with the least amount of fuss, but Tim is just out of bullshit at the moment. On his best day, he could convince an atheist that there's not only a God, but that God would rain down _hookers and booze_ from heaven for the right kind of sacrifice.

But, he's been moving down a long row of working too hard, dealing with the hell his life has been for the last year, and now, he's staring down the man he once thought was his friend (not so) has come out of nowhere to try being nice-not something he wants to deal with.

"I'm 19, Jay, not a minor. I'm not anyone's responsibility. Not B's, not O's, and not yours," his eyes go to Dick's, making his point. _Don't come here like you think you_ ** _owe_** _me something_.

And because, well, Jason, "shit. Baby Bird…I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

 _That makes two of them._

Tim blinks, "that's what you took from this?" The kid sighs. "It's fine. Thanks, man." Tim's glance at Dick becomes assessing, "did he send you for this crap?"

Slightly offended, Dick's brows furrow. "No. No, I came because I wanted to, Timmy. Honest."

Dick's hand twitches on the table, an aborted move to reach out (like he realizes how long it's been all over again). "You haven't been to the manor in I don't even know how long, and hell, I haven't seen you without a domino or that cowl in months. I mean, that's a pretty good sign I've been shit at being your brother recently."

In response, Tim's smirk is brittle, worrying, and he looks back down at his coffee so he doesn't say something damaging, something he's been aware of for a while. And Dick has no idea what's going through his head at that expression. This time, he can't stop himself from reaching, laying his hand over Tim's, squeezing.

"I'm sorry. Please believe me, Timmy."

Gently, Tim pulls his hand away, rolling his eyes over without turning his head, "again, it's fine, Dick. I'm a big vigilante now, so no harm, no foul." He sips his coffee again, considering the matter closed. But, he said nothing about accepting the apology, and Dick has a moment of panic, wondering if he wasn't too late and Tim had been on his own too long…

The system behind them emits a series of beeps, and Tim's whole demeanor changes (in a move scarily similar to when Bruce just _becomes_ the Batman without the cowl); he becomes Red Robin in mind and body, already up and moving away from the table. He touches a few panels on a blank wall in the living room, his system kicking online; the wall shifts, parts and allows four flat screens to slide out and lock in place. Tim waves a hand and the screens kick on with a live feed.

"Red here."

Superboy, Kon-El or Connor Kent, appears on screen with team mates Cassie and Bart beside him at the table in the common room of Titan Tower.

"Hey Rob—" Kon starts with a wave.

"DUDE," Bart interrupts abruptly, finger pointing at the camera. "What. The. Hell? Your stats dropped, man. I thought the team had a _talk_ about protocol."

Kon elbows the speeder without looking away from the camera, talking right over Kid Flash without a hitch. "Just checking in. How's the city that never gets a break?"

And these guys, really. Tim smiles faintly, wondering when they'll just calm down and act normal again. Seriously, he hasn't almost died in _weeks_.

"I'm all good here. Running some Intel on the case that has tendrils in San Fran but nothing too exciting. Shouldn't be more than a few days." There's the inside joke, _nothing too exciting, like taking out hundreds of alien invaders before Rob figured out their hive mentality_.

Cassie leans forward a little, smiling softly at him and in her eyes is the _knowing_. She was still too raw from the team mind fuck the invaders put them through, and, unfortunately, Cassie got the brunt of memories from his torture at the hands of the White Triad. He got just pieces of her battles, of her regular life when they'd stepped on each other's mental traps. Maybe he got hit with a lesser effect because he was so focused on trying to divide his mind (with Miguel shielding him just enough for him to concentration) to formulate a way to get them all free of the hold while the others were locked deep inside the mental minefield of memories: at times, their own; others, someone else's on the team.

Of course, he's Red Robin, usually the man with the plan; this plan just took some time to work, and the team got a little emotionally roughed up in exchange. The mass of it hadn't been so bad, but for Cassie, it had been a horrific experience.

When they finally sent the insurgents packing and everyone else broke to clean-up post battle, Cassie had pretty much run to wrap her arms around him, not even holding back her tears. He hadn't known what to with her coming apart (Kon had been the only one to hang back in case she came apart as in the good ex-boyfriend mentality or something).

And Tim, Tim just sighed at the time because he felt like shit (still does) she got a dose of the worst.

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _"Wh—why would you_ ** _apologize_** _?!" Even though her voice is cracking, she sounds indignant while soaking the shoulder of his suit, probably getting blood and dirt all over her face._

 _"Because no one should see—should go through that. I'm sorry you happened to trip over my memories, Cassie."_

 _Her arms tighten enough that he realizes her arms are trembling slightly against his back, and it's just so_ ** _absurd_** _because Cassie could literally crush him without even straining hard. She, like Kon, are powerful in ways the rest of them just weren't, so it's telling as to how much she's been affected._

 _"Tim," she sobs gently, "I'm sorry we didn't find you in_ time _. Oh…goddess, I'm so sorry, Tim. I'm so, so sorry."_

 _Tim sighs and puts effort into pulling off his domino (cowl foregone so he could wear the wing pack for the fight) so she can look him in the eye. She does, and her blue eyes are watery and red, her face blotchy, but her expression is so broken for him. For him, the one that fixes thing, there's really no way to make it better, so he bites the bullet and just holds on to her tightly, pulling her right back into the crook of his neck to cry for him._

In the here and now, Cassie is still trying to coddle the shit out of him since she experienced some of the same things ( _please not that, please don't say she had to go through the worst part of it all…_ ) he had during his little _vacay_ eight months ago because aliens are just, you know, asshats.

"Hey Rob, we just got worried, you know? Turn on the camera for us, okay?"

He chuffs a little, hands on his hips, "and here I thought we agreed, no more sensors in my suit." Sure he knew they were still there because, well, the team worried (not that Kon had removed the tracker in the hem of his jeans either or well…Bart was problematic, but Tim was nothing if not resourceful. The rest of them had been laughably easier—not that he'd ever point out how often Raven was in Gar's room or when Miguel was off on one of his 'adventures').

Bart gives him a patient look and just crosses his arms over his chest. But Tim already reaches forward and flicks the main switch for the webcam so they can see him standing there in his t-shirt and sweats, bare-faced, and actually in one piece. Their gazes move to where another monitor is located and scrutinize. Tim doesn't even look at himself because he knows there no blood for them to see.

"Perfectly fine," he assures with a more gentle voice, fond, "you would have seen me later anyway. We've got some headway in the suspicious ODs. I'm still tracking, but you guys can check some leads for me."

"Hey, can't help it," Kon replies with a shrug, "you are the _king_ of getting messed up juuuust enough **not** to die."

Good-natured ribbing with an undercurrent of truth, Cassie and Bart are chuckling. In the background, he can hear Gar and Miguel laughing their asses off; Raven is probably trying not to (and failing) look amused. _Why do I go back to them again? Because they would die without me…right._

"Not all of us are invulnerable, you know," Tim jokes back.

"You're supposed to be taking time off," Bart points out with a finger pointed at the camera. "The last-"

"I'm taking it easier than I normally do, okay? Promise. I'm going to sleep soon." Tim interrupts, cutting off that train before Dick or Jason get too much. They already have enough to jump to conclusions.

Kon's eyes narrow and Cassie isn't smiling anymore; their eyes go back to the other screen, obviously looking for someone in the shadows of his Gotham perch, maybe an assassin or two lurking behind him because Ras just really has to take offense when his installations are bombarded with translated episodes of _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ on repeat—for days. _Days._

"Okay, then. Glad you're all right, Rob. We'll talk to you tonight then."

"Of course. Everyone get some sleep before we go hunting, and stop worrying. I'm fine."

The three wave and bid him good-bye; other voices chime in from the kitchen away from the monitors. Tim just shakes his head and presses the right series of panels for the flat screens to slide back into the wall.

"Hm," Jason's eyes are pensive when he comes back to the table, and Tim can pretty much see the wheels turning. Added bonus, his coffee mug is refilled, and Tim takes it gratefully. "Those guys got a leash on you, Baby Bird."

Tim's eyes dart away from Jason's gaze and not because the guy had tried to kill him multiple times (the scar on his throat has faded enough that it doesn't bother Jason to see it anymore, Tim usually covers it with concealer anyway, just by habit). But, really, he and Jason were actually on a more even playing field. In the last year, the Red Hood has been getting his shit together (i.e. not killing, not all about hating the bats, taking on certain aspects of vigilantism the correlated with his old Robin persona). It wasn't easy for the guy, and Tim had always _understood_ that, more so now because he knew how it felt to be displaced in the family not to mention the whole come back from the dead, being thrown into the Lazarus Pit, and the mental torture at the hand of Talia and Ras. All an equation that Tim added up to being fucked in the head.

When Jason started changing up his pattern, had stopped fighting him so fucking hard after the Battle for the Cowl, Tim just took it as finally the right time. Something in him breathed when Jason as the Red Hood faltered for a kill shot, easing his trigger back instead of putting a few rounds through Tim's chest. When Jason had been on the losing side of any random fight in the usual alleyways and accepted Tim's hand, Tim's help in getting him back to a safe house and cleaned up, it was like he was finally on the road to being forgiven for taking something that never really should have been his in the first place. Something that should have gone straight from Jason to Damian.

After that first clean-up, the Red Robin has been there for him (silently at times, other times as a partner) to help when he can, sometimes coming back to Gotham only when Jason finally picked up the phone to call him for insight. One year had become two, and he can actually say they've run together, pulled each other out of the fire. It's a good working relationship (similar to the one he has with Dami now, just with a hell of a lot more smart ass commentary and patching Jason up on the regular).

So, it's Jason he feels the need to answer, "They…worry. I'm the main non-meta of the team, so-"

"Horseshit, Tim." The face takes on a knowing look over the rim of his coffee mug, and Jason's eyes are more scrutinizing. "That clone kid called me, you know, after they realized you'd been snatched."

Dick freezes, mug almost to his mouth, and Tim's muscles tighten reflexively.

And _fucking Jason_ knows the rest of the Bats are in the dark about it; probably knew that Tim didn't want any of them asking questions. _He wasn't their fucking responsibility anymore_.

"He let me know you'd gone missing between there and Gotham. Called again to tell me they'd picked you up almost two weeks later, said you were pretty fucked up, Baby Bird."

Very carefully, Tim wasn't looking at either of them, "no one told me."

Jason hums again, brow arched.

"I survived," he drinks his own coffee, trying not to give anything away, but he has the nightmares. They all had nightmares, but his had electroshock, waterboarding, his body breaking apart, and—and… _Stop, stop it. Don't go there. Just stay away from that._ He's stronger than this.

"Who took you?" Dick asks quietly, a new light making his eyes more intent. He wants to draw out the answers, but Tim can't, he just can't do this with Dick, not anymore.

"I don't talk about it." The admission is gritted out between his teeth. "At all. They took the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, not Red Robin."

Both vigilantes just stare.

"Holy shit, Tim," Hood's face is…fucked with that expression because all the implications are a little closer to the surface and he hadn't wanted to give any of it away. Fucking sleep dep messing with his brain, so now Dick is going to go to Bruce or Tam and _he should have kept his mouth shut_. The ordeal was supposed to stay buried, and there's Dick Grayson with his angry face on.

"This was a fun chat," as dry as he can make it, Tim stands to put his mug in the sink. "I'm going to bed. I've got meetings tomorrow. Lock up before you leave."

"Tim!" Dick's on his feet too, one hand stretched out in the gap between them.

"Nope! Not your responsibility, Dick. Good night."

He waves over his shoulder and goes back down the hall to the bedroom, not bothering to even look at the guy that used to be his brother.

Jason's face is grim, but he chugs the rest of his coffee and gets up from the table after Tim closes his bedroom door with finality, and the familiar anger wells up in his chest as he sets the mug in the sink, taking out his pack of cigarettes. The drawer by the dish drainer has his ash tray in it and clinks when he sets it on the table. Quick cig and then they're getting out of Baby Bird's space. Doesn't matter if he has to knock Dick the fuck out and fireman carry him out; that motherfucker is _leaving_.

Lighter flares to life and the tip of his cig burns while Dick just stands, staring down the hallway with something dark and ferocious in his expression. Jason blinks up at him while he huffs in, taking in the fisted hands, the very Bruce-like tilt to his chin when someone fucked with his stuff, and _oh shit_. Jason's eyes go from Dick to the dark hallway and back.

"Big Bird," those blue eyes slide over, but the acrobat hasn't moved. "C'mon, Big Bird, sit down for a second while I smoke, then we'll go." Very carefully, Jason keeps his hands above the table where Dick can see them, not wanting to trigger aura of 'shit is going to get _fucked_ ' that Dick Grayson is capable of. . His natural acrobat ability made him a shitty opponent when he put his mind to it (because, see, who won the cowl in the end, right?).

Moving like his whole body is wound tight, so carefully controlled, Dick finally takes his seat, obviously thinking hard about what he'd learned tonight. The apartment is still, silent except for the sound of breathing, the computer in the corner humming gently, of Jason taking it easy with his cigarette (since he's gotta put the helmet back on when they go outside and he's not getting one after that), and the earlier reproach.

Now, the daft bastard is getting the picture and really, he's only got himself and Bruce to blame for it, really. Shit, even that little _demon spawn_ hit Tim up once and a while just to make sure the guy wasn't dead in a fucking ditch somewhere. Him and Dami just didn't, you know, make the guy _talk_ about whatever like Dick and even Bruce used to make him do sometimes. Nope, they just joined him to beat the ever-loving shit out of some run-of-the-mill criminals (and even the ape-shit crazier criminals) and let him mother hen over them when they got hurt. He knew for a fact Damian had been here more than once with Tim digging glass and metal out of his stubborn ass before sending him home or taking the kid back to the Manor himself, just dropping him off at the front door.

Dick and Bruce, though, different story. Maybe they both knew Tim was still doing the night patrol thing while he was in town; maybe they figured he was too busy with the Titans now, so they didn't bother to pay him a visit. There could be a lot of reasons behind it (considering what an epic _pain in his ass_ all three are) but none of it mattered in the long run because the end result is what it is. Baby Bird grew up too much in the last two years, and now, he just didn't need the Bats anymore.

As much as it sucks, Jason knows exactly how it feels.


	2. Broken

A/N: Dick is a little upset and Jason has the down-low

Dick doesn't even stop at Bruce's greeting from behind the huge computer ( _the system Tim used to upgrade every week_ ) but goes up the stairs, completely ignoring the 'no suits outside the Cave rule' Alfred instilled from waaaaaay back in the day. He can't bring himself to care.

Jason sighs behind him, taking off the helmet and going to his own workbench—the only Bruce built for him specifically to take care of his gear and make his own throwing discs of ouch, ouch, fuck that hurt. The Cave is big enough for each of them to have their own space with tools and worktable; Dick has one closer to the gym equipment, Dami's is by the staircase so he can snag cookies from Alfred first, Bruce's is closer to the back near the Batmobile parking, and…the one that's never been used is only a few feet away from the main consul powering the computer. It's fully stocked (always has been) and is neatly organized in the way Tim was at work but not at home. Jason eyes the worktable for a minute before sitting down at his own with his head in his hands.

 _That should have gone better_.

Bruce doesn't even hesitate but comes over, clears a spot on the edge of the table, and boosts himself up. The bare hand on the back of Jason's neck is a patient strength, one that also crushes the bones in a bad guy's hand or knee, one that can hold on to the barest purchase to keep himself from falling through the sky, one that can grip the fabric of a cape to make sure the littlest ones live. The last year for Jason Todd has been remembering the times not tainted with the Joker's last hurrah; he's been acclimated into this family unit, strange and fucked up as it may be. He still has his moments of insanity, of just _rage_ , of red painting his vision and laughing in his cerebral cortex. He still lashes out, he still fights against their hold sometimes because _he just fucking has to_ , but Bruce, Dick, and that little shit won't let him go.

They won't let him fall again, and fuck if it doesn't make his chest all tight sometimes. He still keeps his own schedule (he still runs with the Outlaws, he still flies by himself, he still tracks the mobs and the gangs and the dirty motherfuckers to their nasty hidey-holes), but he has a place to come back to. The Bats have made certain he has a _home_. The word tastes strange on his tongue sometimes.

"What happened tonight, Jay?" It's the voice Bruce used to use on him when he was a little shit and had zigged when he should have zagged; it's the depth of Batman with the concern of the real Bruce, his father.

Under that hand and the questioning, Jason's chest lifts in a heavy sigh. "You really don't want me to tell you, B. I mean, _really_ , okay? I've already done an awesome job of pissing off Dick even though he's an ass and it's his own damn fault anyway."

Bruce laughs a little, "you're his little brother, Jay. It's a part of the job requirements that you piss him off. Often. What did he do?" _this time_ remains unsaid.

Finally, Jason looks over, no hood, no domino, and Bruce's brows draw together on what face he must be giving. "Did you tell him where to go tonight? Be straight with me, B."

"He was just going to hit the normal patrol routes for Sector 7, Stephanie and Cass were taking the rest of my usual. Why? Jay, what happened out there?"

"He asked me to go with him to break into Tim's apartment." Jason's eyes narrow up to Bruce's surprised expression.

"Why would he need to _break in_?" But, the detective already gets that there's something under the surface, not just from Dick's stiff back and blank expression but from Jason's long-suffering sigh.

"Bruce, c'mon. Enough with this." Jason massages his temple with one hand. "That kid—" but didn't know how to finish that sentence. He really doesn't have a right to worry about him anyway, who else gave him that totally matching scar across his throat? Or the others that are certainly bullet-wound or knife shaped.

"I take it Tim is back in Gotham then?" Bruce suddenly get the _ah-ha_ light, "movie night. Tim already said no."  
Jason nods.

"It didn't go well."

Open mouth, what the fuck was he supposed to say to Batman? _'Your son thinks he's not you responsibility anymore.' 'He doesn't think he's a Bat anymore.'_ What comes out, "Baby Bird basically told Dick he wasn't part of the family."

Bruce draws back, brows furrowed, silent, and fuck if that doesn't make him spill more of his guts. "Jesus, man, I mean that Superbrat called me when they found him but I didn't know they took him, not Red Robin. Shit, Bruce, Dick didn't know he'd been snatched at _all_. How could he not have known—?"

But the unnatural stillness brings his gaze back to Bruce and **that look** , "oh fuck. You didn't know either…"

"Master Dick, honestly." Alfred puts a gentle hand to the younger man's shoulder and lays a plate slightly above the right hand splayed around a cup of coffee. "Food is necessary for the working vigilante."

His old t-shirt and sweats are usually comfort triggers for him; a reminder that there's more behind the mask. There's a man that does things, that likes movies, terrible B-movies, amusement parks, museums, concerts, sitting in a bookstore with the latest mystery or magazine; there's a _man_ under there. Being Batman used to be his greatest fear, his greatest burden because the weight of that mantle was crushing; being _that_ was an all-encompassing thing, it consumed. Only a man like Bruce could bare it and keep his sanity, keep a semblance of something separate from the shadows.

When they all thought he was gone, dead, and the fighting started for who would be the next in line, it was never Dick's intent to fight for something that would eat him alive. If Jason hadn't…then he would never…Tim would have been so much _better_ … But, he was the oldest, the longest in this life, and when he'd taken it on, taken Damian as his second (utterly crushing his younger brother), he had re-made Batman to fit him instead of caving to the Bat. The experience had been jarring, that _he could re-make the Batman in his image_.

"Dick?" This time, Alfred's voice is gentler, more insistent.

"…I fucked up, Al. With Tim." He stares into the darkness of his coffee, "I went there and it's like he's not the same guy. He didn't even…I—I don't know where to begin trying to fix this. 'I'm 19, not a minor. I'm no one's responsibility anymore.' Dammit, is that what..?" Dick closes his eyes. "Jason asked me how long it'd been since he'd come here for wound checks or dinner or called for help, and I had no idea, have no idea. That's how long it's been. _I don't even remember_."

The older man's expression softens just a bit and he glances around before gently sinking into the chair next to Dick (and it's one of those things _only_ Dick Grayson can make happen: he can make Alfred Pennyworth step out of the carefully cultivated role for a few minutes and be _family_ ).

"Master Timothy has always been…" even Alfred seems at a loss, "independent by nature, Dick. It is part of his being, to take on more burdens than any man should bare; to find the answers to his questions himself and take action. Of course all of Master Bruce's children are unique in their strengths and weaknesses, all have made exceptional partners for his other life, and have saved him from himself more than once, for that is the nature of the Robin. But, for Master Timothy…I believe he has seen his tenure as Robin, not as the Batman's sidekick, but as an entity unto itself. For most of his time, he operated separately from the Batman as a matter of course, not merely as necessity. In effect, he may have become accustomed to being the son without the same ties to the family as you, Jason, and even Damian. Perhaps this has lead him to this path, one in which he does not see a place for himself in the family any longer."

Dick looks away from Alfred, burying his head in his hands again, turning Alfred's words over and over.

"However, it is highly possible Master Tim has partially separated himself from the family to try forgetting the events leading and following his… _retirement_ from Batman's Robin since you as Robin and not the Batman happened to be his first real hero, his reason to later take on the mask and cape himself." Alfred smiles gently down at Dick's bent head, "once the family seemed to come together after Master Bruce's return while Timothy stayed in Europe, he may have seen no reason to come back." The butler just gives him that Gallic shrug that means everything and nothing.

"None of that tells me how I can _fix_ it, Al," Dick replies without raising his head.

"Very simple, Sir," the butler finally raises a hand to the back of the younger man's neck and squeezes, "give Master Timothy the right reasons to return."

The clock in the other room opens and Alfred returns to his post, returning to the kitchen for "dinner" when Bruce comes through the doorway in his own pair of cut-off sweats and an overly big Superman t-shirt (because Clark always had to give gag gifts for special occasions and you bet Bruce was going to _wear that shit_ ).

Dick doesn't raise his head as Bruce pulls out the chair next to him and sits down. The bigger man just runs a hand over his oldest son's shoulders and back, lending his silent presence as a comfort, just like when Dick was little and had a bad night out as Robin. Some nights when he would see something horrific that they couldn't go back in time and _fix_ …

Dick sighs again.

Bruce hums, "not just you, Big Wing," he assures in that voice reserved for his first son, his first real partner. "I missed it too. Luckily, we have Jason to keep us on the straight and narrow."

At that, Dick burst out laughing, looking over at the smirk on his father's face. "Geeze, Bruce. Why you gotta…well, yeah. Yeah."

"I missed out on it all too, Dick. The League knew the Titans went through hell with that Insurgent Crisis, but no one wanted to push after we saw them come back from it. I had my chance there to go to Tim, bring him back home for a week, hell, a _month_ to recover himself like the others. Clark took Kon out into space, Diana took Cassie back to the island, everyone took their protégés out of that damn Tower to help them _deal_ with whatever the alien race did to them. At the time, Tim didn't even look at me while the others were leaving—" Bruce sighs, "I should have realized right then how far out of hand I'd let it get. The second Tim turned his back on me and went back to that Tower alone, I should have—"

"Not just you, Bruce!"

The elder Wayne hikes a brow at his son, "two years, Dick. I've been back for two years, back as the Batman for half that. Tim comes whenever we call, picks up when I need intel, shows up when one of us is in a tight spot. He still runs WE in my place, but I honestly think the last time he was here was…when we went to get Damian back from Darkseid. That's the last time I remember him in the Cave."

Dick nods miserably, staring down at the table.

"He really told you he wasn't your 'responsibility' anymore?"

"Said he wasn't mine or O's or yours," Dick shrugs one shoulder, "he's just _not_ Timmy anymore. He's this adult now with a blank expression I've never seen, and he would barely look at me, talk to me. I'm the worst brother ever."

Bruce shakes his head gently, "I think it's more we gave him too much, Dick. You wanted to give him time to become this new vigilante so he could be your equal, and I wanted to give him time to heal from choosing Damian as _my_ Robin over him even after he pulled me back here." The elder braces his elbow on the table, lays his cheek in one hand to look down at the top of his son's head, "I didn't explain, but I rarely do, so it would make sense he's been nursing some heavy hurt. And Tim has a tendency to-"

"Internalize. Over-work. Isolate himself."

"Yes to everything, but at least he hasn't completely cut ties, like Jason originally did. He keeps up with his own sense of responsibility with being our intel guy, coming when we call."

"That doesn't make it any better, Bruce."  
"No, it doesn't, but it gives us a way to get him back."

Dick finally puts his elbow up in the same way, looking into his father's face, "okay, so we do this the smart way? We do the research and then..?"

Bruce actually grins at him, "and I thought I only trained one detective in the family. Yes, we do the research first. Once we find out what it yields, we go from there."

"Plans make me feel better, you know that right?"

"All this from the kid that just threw himself off anything more than three feet tall? And _still does to this day_."

"Oh please, twenty feet if anything."

The two share a laugh as Jason comes through the hallway and gingerly eases down in his chair for dinner. He carefully doesn't look at the two, folding his arms on top the table to give off a completely relaxed vibe and hope he doesn't get pulled into this whole 'Tim's a big boy' shit now—

"All right, Jason. We're starting with you. Spill it. Everything you know."

 _Fuck._

Very slowly, the Red Hood slowly raises both hands up to his shoulders, palms out, without looking at either of them. "I reserve the right _not_ to incriminate myself—"

"All right smart ass," Dick finally grins a little as Jason drops his hand and tilts his head to the side with a smirk.

He sighs and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest, hair flopping over his forehead, "so, about Baby Bird, huh?"

The two older men don't even have to comment; however, as if he was listening at the door, Alfred comes out of the kitchen at the right moment, making final preparations for the meal.

"He—uh, kind of started it actually." He looks up at Alfred in thanks when the mug in front of him is filled with wonderful smelling coffee. "After everything I'd done to him, all the injuries, well, _all_ of it, I never expected him to come and pull me out of a gun fight gone really bad, but," Jason shrugs, sipping the dark brew, "he did. Got a good one himself in the process, but once he latched on to my weapon's harness, that little shit didn't let go. I dunno, I think that's where we started being okay."

Roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables are all laid out and the plates handed around.

"It was…small things. He'd show up on my rounds, maybe offer to grab some food or check out any leads, running tests for me. Then he just started patching my ass up after a while, you know, make me come back to his perch because," Jason uses both hands to make quotation fingers, " 'my supplies are shit' and he can have his systems running on whatever case he was working at the time. He stopped being worried I was going to slit his throat, put new holes in him, or whatever. Like, I got _couch_ rights, man, and that little fucker downloads new movies, like every week." Jason grins while helping himself to potatoes, accepting the bowl from Dick.

"And…last year, I couldn't get around the Blade Squad because, yeah, they're a gang of techno-assholes, so I called him up while he was in San Fran. Next thing I know, he's in trashed civvies at my safe house with those stupid earbuds, 'cause that's what _muggers_ look for you know? I mean, hello _Red_ , what the fuck? I dunno, maybe he was just spoiling for a fight. Anyway, I got no idea how he knew which one, since it wasn't one of the BI's but the Hood's and there he was with a beat-up laptop bag, glaring at me." Jason huffs out a laugh, remembering that kid in torn jeans, worn old hoodie with the hood up to hide his face, and appropriate skater shoes since he was also carrying an old board. It was the most chill he's ever seen the kid. Course, Wayne Enterprises CEO Timothy Drake-Wayne wouldn't be caught dead with a backward hat and Shaun White backpack (with random pins all over it), so he literally stared at Drake for five minutes, mouth agape before the 18 year old shoved past him.

"Yeah, I think that's the time me and Baby Bird agreed we were cool." Jason glances over his shoulder, "hey, Al. This chicken is the bomb-shit, seriously. You need to teach me how to make it some time."

"Of course, Master Jason, since I am very well comfortable with _you_ in my kitchen at least." An arched brow at Bruce makes the master of the house duck his head and take another bite. Dick makes a momentous effort not to choke.

"So…" Dick starts, cutting his chicken, "the Titans called you when he was kidnapped? Is there anything…?"

The other man stills, the creepy Batman-type stillness. "Super Clone wanted to know the last time I saw or heard from Red. Said he shouldn't have called a Bat anyhow since... well, Red told 'em not to call any of us."

Dick's brow arches (which explains why _Raven_ of all people **didn't** call him when shit hit the fan for Tim); Bruce's eyes slide over to him since it was The Titans and all.

"But, got a text saying they found him and basically he was tortured, beat pretty badly. Red wouldn't tell me anything about it and well, shit, I didn't even know they took him as _Tim Drake_ until tonight actually." Jason's face shuts down, his expression bland. "I have no idea why they would want him and not send any kind of ransom demand or anything. That's something you'll have to get out of Red or the Titans."

Bruce is chewing thoughtfully and finally nudges Dick, "see? Jason is the one keeping us on the straight and narrow."

Jarred out of his thoughts, the second son barks out a surprised laugh, "wow, seriously, B? Well, you know, come to think of it, yeah, I do. You two assholes are _lucky_ to have me." He points a fork at them with an arched brow and grin.  
Amused, the two other Bats just grin back.

The gap the divided them seemed too far to bridge at this point. Dick is starting to get desperate, searching for any reason to seek his younger brother out, taking rejection after rejection with calm acceptance and determination to keep trying. To stop letting Tim fall through the cracks of their busy lives.

Damian, for once, seems to support the effort, but then again, the youngest apparently has some sort of agreement with Tim as his usual sarcastic tongue lacked the old bite. Well, truth be told, once he started going over the comm records and reports Bruce requested from Babs, he found that Damian had been talking more to Tim than Dick had been in the last year. At least Dami had remembered his birthday:

 _'Congratulations Red, you live to annoy me another year.'_  
 _'Only if you don't decide to kill me in my sleep, R.'_  
 _'-tt- then you wouldn't be around to pester.'_  
 _'Aw. I love you too, you know.'_  
 _'You're a fool, Red.'_  
 _'Everyone had to be something, R.'_  
 _'Sigh. Do not let this go to your ego, but you do have a point... Red, I assume you have plans? Others with which to celebrate?'_  
 _'… I'm good, R. Thanks.'_  
 _'Red,-'_  
 _'You have school and it's already late… But, thank-you. Thank-you.'_  
 _'I do not approve of this. You should not be alone.'_  
 _'Heh. My gift to me is sleep. That's going to be pretty good.'_  
 _'Call me should you change your mind.'_  
 _'I will. Red out.'_

Tim never called, he was sure. More disturbing for Dick, however, were the instances Oracle outlined at Bruce's request. The last time Red Robin called out to any of the bats for help or back up was eight months ago. No one responded. Oracle's report stated he was able to get away without compromising his identity, but the audio recording was a nightmare of bludgeoning ( _he must have been sleep deprived and running himself ragged with the Titans and Gotham. Why the fuck didn't anyone get to him? How did it happen? Where had he been? Where had Bruce been? Dick is still digging into his own records trying to find out_.) and jeering from the group.

Tim had been out of commission for a week after that and had gone back to the Tower for over a month afterwards. His comm was either on mute or off after that, O reporting that she was unable to trace Red Robin's whereabouts or hack back into his private comm. He had upped his security and encryptions; he hadn't wanted to be found while in Gotham.

However, nothing in her records had indications of his abduction, and Dick needed to know more. So, he decided to go to the next step, contacting someone outside the family before he went back to Bruce to compare notes. His first stop is Tam.

After hours, he's Nightwing, sitting on the fire escape of an abandoned building with his instant noodles still hot and the phone between his ear and shoulder.

"Dick!" Tam's voice is warm and professional. "Hey, how are you?"

A few minutes of small talk gives him time to slurp his noodles and catch up on how she is, how Lucius is doing ("he _hates_ retirement"), how WE has been progressing, the new man in her life, the lack of love in his, and the usual teasing, flirting banter ("I should have just asked you to marry me," he bemoans and she laughs).

After a while, they get down to it because there's still patrol to finish and a beat shift tomorrow.  
"So-"  
"So, you're going to tell me why you're calling, huh? You know, my boss is a real hard ass so I need sleep at some point."

He laughs, "I know, I know, that Wayne guy, right?"  
A significant pause, "You mean, Drake, right?" And her voice sounds odd.

"Well, yeah, Tim's-"  
"Dick, he legally dropped the Wayne part months ago. He keeps it for morale and company image, but Tim's not a Wayne anymore… Oh, you—didn't know that?"

A piece of him numbs, "no. No I didn't. I don't think Bruce knows either."  
"Oh. Damn it. I shouldn't have said anything."  
"It's okay," _no, it's not. The more he uncovers, the less okay things are getting._ "He's the reason I'm calling Tam."

"Oh no. Dick, Dick where _is_ he? I'll get in the car now, I can come-"

"Not that reason, Tam, honest." ( _How many times has she gone out to get him when he's injured? Why did he risk her?_ ) "He's, well, he won't talk to me anymore so I'm kinda-"

"Uh-hu. Whose fault is that?"

"Believe me, _I know_. That's why I'm trying to get deets, Tam. We're all trying to fix this with him, no lie. Me and B are trying to get back into his life if he'll let us, but…he's this completely different guy now, and I don't even know where to start."

"Yeah, yeah he is—very different now, isn't he? Even in the last few months, I've seen it, but there's well, he's been through so much, Dick, and…he just keeps it all in. He just keeps moving to the next thing. I tried, believe me, I tried so hard with him, but I just couldn't reach him, you know? I mean…the, that part of his life is too much for me. I'm a regular person, and that—I just can't help him with it. I tried to be there for _Tim Drake_ , but I can't be there for Red. I don't know _how_ to be there for Red."

"I get that," and Dick's voice is wrecked, "and that's okay. He's had girlfriends out of the life before, so it's nothing new. I hated to hear he couldn't make it work with you because you're a good person, Tam. But, you can't blame it on yourself or him. It's who we are. This life is a big part of us." Dick swallows around the lump in his throat, "that's part of why I'm calling you. He used to tell me everything and now I can't even get him to tell me where he'll be for the night. He won't come for dinner or movie nights, won't let me bring him take-out or anything. I mean, I'm finally in Gotham full time now, but he isn't, so it's just—"

"Making you crazy, huh?"  
He sighs in answer.

"Okay," and she breathes in too, "okay. I'm, really I'm glad you and B are going to try with him, seriously. So, I'll give you a little I know and then some advice, how about that?"

"I'll take anything at this point."

Tam just gives a little laugh, "well, where to start? Hm, all things Tim Drake…so, you know that Tim hasn't lived in the Manor for a long time, and it's kind of where I remember all of it starting. And, I remember this, Dick, because of the look on his face when he, um, said he moved out because wasn't his _place_ to be there."

 _Dami_ , Dick answers his own question.

"He just looked so lost when he told me not to send his mail to the Manor anymore, he'd have to have it forwarded somewhere else. Then, I went with him for a while, when he was on the hunt for B, you know? Not for the whole trip, he did make me come back before 'I got hurt,' his words. Then, he sent B back to Gotham and did the whole training thing? With very scary people that I'm not going to name on an open phone line? Well, he called me, asked how WE was doing and let me know he was going to stay in Europe for a while to get his head on straight."

 _Bruce told him he was going to keep Damian as Robin; that's why he didn't come back._

"When he did, finally, come back to Gotham and work…that kid, that little smart ass, was just gone, Dick. I can't explain it other than that. Tim Drake left and this older man came back in his place. He got the apartment when he has to be in town for WE business or to do his thing around the city like you do. And he started hanging out with a new crowd, like _those_ scary people that, again, I'm not going to name, but the same ones that found him when he lost his spleen and—"

"Whoa," Dick puts his hand out like Tam can see it, "he _lost his spleen_?" _How the fuck do you just—just_ ** _how_** _?_

"Oh…yeah. Yeah, Dick, he did. But, he takes some vitamins and low level antibiotics to keep his immune systems up and he told me he really doesn't _need_ it to live, but—"

"When? How?"

"When he was trying to find the missing person." Her simple answer. "That's where some of the new scars came from, I mean, did B tell you anything about it? Well, Tim probably didn't tell him anything about it, so why am I surprised." He can just imagine Tam trying rein in her temper next time Tim comes in the office for meetings. Wow, he wish he could see that.

"So, after he got back from his training mission and just, wow, had all these crazy moves, he kept his cowl and that new identity, came back to lead the company…and looked for places. Safe houses for BI and a place for himself. He—I think it was significant because he just figured he wasn't supposed to be there anymore now that the family was getting back together."

The noodle cup is by his boot, Dick rubbing at his temple.

"Okay," Dick encourages.

"Well, he went back to see the Titans, too. He…he told me back then that he needed something outside Gotham because eventually he'd leave all together, so the team was happy to have him back even with the new uniform." She pauses, obviously thinking about how to say the next part.

"He didn't get the same reception," Dick supplies helpfully.

She scoffs (so, not that helpful), "no, no, they were all really happy to see him, that he was okay. The one friend with the lame uniform was pretty pissed at him for just disappearing, but yeah, they were happy to have him back. They wanted him to take point and he did, still does."

 _At least he has them, at least he has someone._

"I get that you don't know much about the Red part of his life, but…what can you tell me about the kidnapping? Did WE ever get ransom or anything?"

Tam's voice goes strange again, "Dick…I, I'm sorry, but I promised him I wouldn't tell you or B anything about it. Nothing."

Dick perks up at that, _little asshole knew they'd go to Tam eventually_. "Tam, Hood said he was tortured."

"I can't. You'll have to get it directly from him. I don't even know it all."

More frustrated than when he started, Dick sighs into the phone, "anything about his general life? I mean, is he dating anyone, taking up any crazy hobbies?"

"He really likes his 'play' days in R&D when there's no meetings or CEO things he has to worry about. I mean, his work with our experimental tracking system was crucial for the military contract. The first demonstration wouldn't have even happened if Tim hadn't done some work on side to get the system functionally stable. As for seeing someone, well, he hasn't mentioned anything to me, but then again, Tim's been pulling away from me too." It's her turn to sigh in his ear, "Dick, I don't see a good end for him on this road. I don't care how well he can take a beating and still walk it off. I just, I don't know how long he can keep going."

"I…hadn't realized it'd gotten so bad for him," Dick admits, swinging his legs. "The last year has been pretty crazy for everyone, trying to get Jason back, B taking up the mantle again, Blüdhaven falling and me coming back to Gotham, well, and Damian back…it's just, I'm not going to make excuses but—"

"Tim got lost in the shuffle. I get it, but you and the rest of those guys need to get it too, Dick. He's not the same guy, period. It's been a bad year for you? Check out the papers on how bad the Titans had it with the Insurgent Crisis, and before you say anything, no. I'm not tell you about it either. I've brought you up to speed on all things Tim Drake, well, as much as I can anyway."

"I know, thanks for talking with me, Tam. So, where's the advice portion, huh?"

"Easy, Blue Eyes, dog the hell out of him. He'll give in eventually."

The night echoes with his laughter.

"On your right!"

Luckily, he'd taken a slight detour on finishing his 'night shift' and just happened to find Red Robin in the middle of an _epic_ bruiser down in the Square because, you know, Gotham. His resolve bolstered by Tam's advice, Nightwing didn't even hesitate to drop in on the party sans invitation.

"I'm so _hurt_ , Red," he's saying while jumping over a guy, both legs out to kick two in the face, "I mean, I didn't even get an email to come out and join the fun. Do you have any of those little cucumber sandwiches?" The back of his fist nails the next guy in line right in the nose. By habit, he moves just enough to avoid the inevitable spurt of blood.

"I thought you were more of a pigs in a blanket kind of guy," Red Robin deadpans (really, double entendre, much?), and makes Nightwing grin for more than one reason.

Well, it's the first time in the last two weeks of _Plan: Get Tim Back_ that the guy has comeback with the old hardy-har-har and second, Nightwing can actually _see_ him in his element, taking in the other hero's new fighting style. If they ever got to that point again, he's be a whole different guy to spar with.

"Hey, Red, free food is _free_. Who am I to be picky? But, really, next time try for a different venue." Spinning back kick, his heel busting someone's jaw, sending the random Bad Guy #12 flying.

"I didn't have time to stop at Party City, next time I'll have streamers," Red returns, bo a blur of motion, as the guys around him just keep falling and wow. He'd gotten so much faster, moved more and more fluid like Bruce or Dami; no flare, just lightning fast hands and feet.

"For sure. Those always liven things up."

"Are you guys for real?!" One of the men on the ground sneers, "get a fucking room and be done with it!"

Nightwing's brow arches over his domino, "well, if mean guys like you would _follow the law_ , we wouldn't have to be out here kicking your asses." He cheerfully smacked the guy through a loop.

"Everyone's a critic," Red delivers a stunning kick to catch the final man a crazy uppercut, a gust of wind catching his cape enough to billow it out while he pushes the bow back to the length of his forearm and stashes it somewhere in that harness. He's already moving to start tying up the bad guys so the GPD can come and round them up (and Office Grayson can finish up the paperwork on them all during his beat shift tomorrow, _sigh_ ).

Neither banter while they round up the baddies, just doing the dredges of the job. Red Robin finally hits a few keys on his "work" phone that sends an auto distress call to headquarters with technology that makes Nightwing scratch his head.

And the guy, _this guy that just fought with him_ , already has his back turned and a grapple in hand, ready to leave in the same 'I'm even going to say good-bye' manner he's been using for the last who fucking knew how long.

"Hey!" Nightwing walks around the bundles of tied up guys, dodging the piles of weapons, "we should totally go for some Chinese to celebrate—"

The cowl's side view and one white lensed eye greet him over Red's shoulder, mouth downturned, "I don't know what the fuck you're doing," and it's almost the old Robin voice, darker in tone, "but this shit stops. I don't need a babysitter, haven't for a long time. If the Bat wants to know if I'm still up on my game, then he can come tell me himself."

The loud bang associated with the grapple shooting out makes Nightwing blink behind the domino, at a loss from the acid in his brother's tone. Red takes flight, cape fluttering behind him, and Nightwing…Nightwing just plops his ass right down on the sidewalk beside a pile of still full magazines they taken out of the autos, staring up at the place where Red disappeared. His chest aches.

The footsteps behind him are familiar, obvious, and that's the only reason he isn't on his feet in a heartbeat with the escrima sticks at the ready. Instead, he just sits there as a gloved hand squeezes his shoulder.

"Don't take it to heart, Big Bird," Red Hood squeezes against for good measure. "C'mon. You're done for the night anyway, gotta work tomorrow, right?"

A shift in the shadows is his nod, his shoulders lifting in a deep intake of breath. "Yeah, yeah."

Sirens are already echoing off the buildings. Hood moves around to stand in front of him, drawing Nightwing's gaze up and that gloved hand is shoved out, an offering. A reminder that he has at least one brother that doesn't hate his ass. With a small smile, the vigilante takes the hand and lets Red Hood pull him standing.

A/N: _Dick's an asshole, but he's not that bad, really. Bruce has a sense of humor and also, not really an asshole. As for the pairings, I had originally meant for it to be Tim/Dick but I'm still considering ;) Thanks for reading._


	3. Chapter 3: Trying

The feeling slides down his spine, and he turns from his place in the shadows to face the new comer to his perch. Others had taken on his old patrol route, his old hidey holes to sit for a minute, grab a power bar and a drink before going back at it. His new route (when he's in Gotham) came with new hiding spots too. Trust the Batman to find them.

"Red Robin," the dark knight greets, half in shadows.

"Batman," the younger returns without coming out of the shadows. "What do you need?" Rote.

"I'm with you tonight." And that's it. Almost two years patrolling by himself and all of a sudden he's got the man himself coming out of the woodwork.

"You're on the South side with Robin. My business is taking me East."

To his credit, the Bat doesn't show he's surprised Red Robin knows their patrol schedule (if he is surprised at all).

"Change of plans. Robin is with Nightwing. I'm with you."

"Unnecessary. They're have a small group, it's more Intel than fighting."

"Regardless," is the only response.

Finally, he turns to face his old mentor, both with cowls to hide themselves.

"I don't know who's been talking to you or what's going on," it's the Red Robin voice, "but I don't need a babysitter."

Unruffled, the Batman gives no outward reactions. It's strange, he used to be able to read the smallest tick, used to be able to find the emotion even when he was the Bat. Now, it's like he's looking at a stranger all over again…

"I've been told you've stopped checking in when you're in town." A mild observation, but Red Robin is a detective in his own right now and he can read between the lines.

"I patrol whenever I come back."

"Not the point."

"It IS the point, Batman." He returns. "I haven't 'checked in' for over a year, and it's just now an issue. Why?"

Silence. Because of course the Batman didn't like to be called out, but Red Robin wasn't one of his anymore. He wasn't going to blindly follow; he has his own team, his own agenda, his own way of doing things. They weren't partners anymore ( _but were you ever really, Replacement?_ ).

"Quiet is not an answer." Red asserts patiently, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No one has patrolled with you since the last crisis. It's a good strategy to know how my fighters work when we need to be paired up or the team united."

"Good strategy," he keeps his voice carefully empty, forcing himself not to tense because _the team_. "Agreed. I'm still part of BI so my profile is there and it hasn't changed. I work well with Hood, Black Bat, and Oracle. Even Robin and I can get along." There. Now he can be on his way.

But the Bat isn't done. "Then I'll be more direct." He steps out of the shadows to come closer, "I've made a grave error in the attempt to give you what I thought you needed: space, time. You needed to figure out who you were and where you needed to be, just like Dick when he left Robin behind."

Red Robin stays silent, back turned to the Bat.

"But it's been two years since you found me, brought me home, and I've finally got the full account of what happened while I was gone. Dick took Robin from you-"

"This is an old story, Batman." And the tone is there, the 'testing my patience' tone.

"None of us expected you to leave the family over it, Tim."

His spine snaps straight, angrily, and it gives the Batman pause, looking at his son.

The laugh is bitter, "sure. That's what you want to believe, then not a problem. _I_ left the family. I don't call for help on comms anymore because why bother, really? I don't come when there's a call or spend days getting the data you need. I don't take care of business to make sure it _stays in your family_. Sure, Batman, I just left. So, you've got no reason to follow me then, right? I'm the stand-in between your sons, so I'll pull my file from BI and be on my way."

His grapple is already shot, he's already flying while the Batman is left standing with a highly unusual sense of guilt the Bat normally didn't feel. Those things were left for when the mask came off. But those words came back to him, _a stand-in between your sons_. The situation with Tim had degraded more than he initially realized and the Bat got out his own grapple, firing with an outstretched arm. The tracker he'd managed to peg on Red Robin is already working.

He would still follow. He would follow Dick's lead and work on trying to fix the obvious break in their family.

Wow, now he's completely fine with a bad guy beat-down.

He'd already snuck into their 'office' and cracked the password; his transmitter sent the data to his system for later. When he looks at the security feed, the pissed off hits. Batman is doing his _stand in the center and be creepy before the fight starts_ thing, and Red Robin swears, loudly.

Guy wants to do this, fine. Just, fine. Red moves out of the office, not meeting anyone (pity) before he came to the main storage place for the drugs. The small group of bad guys turned slightly larger at, well, 'shit, shit, Batman.'

And watching Batman is like watching water run, smooth and consistent, never stopping. He goes from one thug to the next, one fight to the next without a hitch, and Red jumps, summersaults, comes down with a kick to enter the frey.  
He doesn't default ("back to back, Robin"), but takes his section of them and works through the mass. He uses what he has, doesn't try anything fancy, and he not end-of-my-patience brutal. He doesn't fight like Robin anymore, he fights like Red Robin.

By the time Batman is done, his section tied and ready for the police, Red Robin's are tied and he's gone, moving to the roof for the next stop in patrol. The tracker is neatly placed on top of a crate.

When the Batman returns to the Cave after a night of chasing Red Robin's spectacular distractions, the email from Oracle confirms the Red Robin profile is gone from the database.


	4. Chapter 4: Bequeath

_Four months after Bruce's return:_

It's… Fucking painful but necessary. Tim stands in his underground garage beneath his new main perch in Gotham, eyes moving over the massive lump under the dust cover. He hasn't been here long, is actually still moving things from the storage locker he'd gotten not long after the Battle for the Cowl. After Dick took Damian as his Robin, Tim had just known it would be a good idea to start moving the majority of his things out of the Manor to somewhere safe. This had been just stored in the back of the unit, waiting to take up the good fight again.

His chest lifts in a sigh, but, well, it's long overdue, and he's got to be a good guy about this. _He's_ got to be the bigger man because…he's not the same one that left Gotham months ago to look for his pseudo-father. He's a very different man now. There's a whole lot of broken _everything_ in him, a lot of pieces he's spent the last few months trying to glue back together. He used to be a scrapper, digging his heels in with every ounce of stubborn will; he's learned a better way, learned _the hard way_ , to flow, to direct things his way instead of standing to let the water surge against his back. He's a very different man in more ways than one.

But still, _this is a bitch_. Determined, he reaches out, grips the dust cover, and pulls it away. The Red Bird gleams at him, wasting away for…too damn long. His old R on the back fenders are long gone to make room for the new R that belonged to someone else; the old dings and scrapes (memories of better times) have been fixed for ages, hammered out, repainted; the computer with his previous files have been wiped for just as long so when the time finally came, he could give it up with a free conscience because really…it isn't his, never should have been. He _sees that now_.

So, it's time. _Fuck._

Tim takes a breath, one hand over his face in a moment of weakness.

Squaring his shoulders, he moves to the smaller bike for undercover work more than for the night job, and walks it to the back of the Bird. A few this and that's to hitch it to the back because he sure a as fuck isn't going to wait around for a ride back to town, not to let anyone see how much this screws with him. The Bats aren't going to get that out of him, no way in hell.

Then he's in the reinforced locker, takes his time getting into the new uniform, the newest version he created himself. Under-layer is first, then body armor with the usual fabricated weave of Nomac and Kevlar, gloves then gauntlets, locking in the security features, tightening the harness, utility belt around the waist. Cape and cowl are last. Then, nothing left but a whole lot of time to go. He's burning night.

Red steps up to the driver's side, hand faltering a little on the door. Red Robin has never been in this car; it was never his place, not his memory. This was another lifetime. It and the old uniforms buried in a box upstairs somewhere (or was it in The Tower?) is what he has left of that time when…

Silently reprimanding himself (and pissed off he's being a pansy about this, _it's just a fucking car, Tim_ , _get it together_ ), Red opens the damn door and slides in, ducking down since, _shit_ , he's apparently taller now ( _who the fuck has a growth spurt this late in life anyway?_ ). He fires it up, forcing himself to keep his mind on doing the right thing instead of seeing ghosts of Spoiler or Nightwing or… Nope, the passenger seat is _empty,_ keep with that. No one is there beside him anymore. It's not fine yet, but at some point, it would be.

Another breath, the best part of his life, when his place was defined and valued, is still here. Was. Red lowers his head a little to lay against the steering wheel while the engine idles gently.

He taps a spot on his harness without raising his head, and the hidden garage door slides up. Straightening, Red Robin backs the car out, careful of the bike hitched behind.

The hidden way is permanently burned in his mind, a map that will always exist no matter how long it's been since he's been 'there.' He also knows how to avoid all the other trips to stop someone on the outside from finding the place, the security feeds that go off when someone is approaching.

Unerringly, he turns to the slight right instead of going on into the Cave's proper, coming on the rows of cars for all possible uses: daytime Brucie (the Rolls, the Lexus, a nice Jag), nighttime undercover (beaters, an Audi, the old Honda Civic), two GPD cruisers (who knew where they came from), car for pick-ups (bullet proof glass and the darkest tint; souped-up engines to outrun anything else on wheels), the extra Batmobile, and now a spot for Dami's new ride once he gets old enough for Bruce to hand him the keys.

Red parks it in the back, obscured by the ambulance Alfred sometimes uses when the shit hits the fan in a _big way_ , and affectionately pats the dash. His hand lingers longer than it should because _fuck this is_ _ **hard**_. So many memories to leave here.

But, he gets out, closes the door behind him. The niche built into the wall houses the keys for all the cars, and Red hangs them up at the end of the row, his R keychain gone, back in that lost box somewhere. He digs out a car cover and shakes it out on his way back.

Once the Red Bird is covered again, he heads to the back and unhooks the bike, stores the rigging he used in the compartment under the seat. Even though his chest hurts again, he walks the bike away from the ledge without looking back.

Once he's good for takeoff, Red swings a leg over and bows his head for a moment. Really, it was literally a breath… but long enough for footsteps to approach, and he snaps to attention because _dammit he shouldn't_ _ **be**_ _here_ , no one was supposed to catch him.

That voice though, "Master Tim! You've returned from abroad. Ah, Master Bruce didn't-"

He doesn't get off the bike, doesn't turn around. "Alfred. Yeah, I'm back," he interrupts needlessly. "I've gotta get going. Already late. We'll catch up soon."

He's already firing the engine before Alfred has to force himself to ask Tim to leave with _that look_ , the one where he doesn't agree with the choices you're making, like he knows better, but is going to let you figure it out on your own.

His chest burns. His eyes are hot under the cowl, but fuck if he was going to let it get worse. Burst of speed and he's gone, going back out into the night.

More than a year later, and the same butler is staring down at the still-covered vehicle. His eyes are distant, remembering that interaction, the last one he's had with Timothy Jackson Drake without the others milling about during the usual end-of-Gotham/the world crisis. He hasn't had a moment to with the boy since and has not seen the boy without a mask.

But that night…that night has taken a special place in his library of memory, a marked page in the volume. Alfred's arms, loosely crossed in front of his chest, elbows cradled in his hands, tighten at the memory of that tone, of that boy's straight back before he started the bike, _like that child expected to be reprimanded for being in the Cave_. As though he would be cast out like common refuse, and in looking back on it, on all the events that lead up to that moment, Alfred could deduce that's exactly what the boy expected.

"I read this completely wrong."

The boy he raised to a man steps out of the shadows, head lowered a bit with the cowl shoved back and still in his work clothes. Of course, the Master would seek him out if he wasn't in the Cave waiting their return; it is such a part of Bruce's nature to seek out, to protect, to _make sure_ , that Alfred looks over with a slight smile. The man's instinct will never falter; the butler, however, feels a bit negligent since the time has apparently passed more quickly than he imagined. Obviously, he's been here longer than intended.

Bruce stands beside his oldest friend, also looking down at the lump. "I thought this was a sign he was moving on, that he was letting go of old things, and starting to _grow_. I was so hopeful that…" Bruce just sighs through his nose, looking older with those blue eyes twisting. "I was wrong."

Alfred just chuckles a bit sadly, "we are all _wrong_ at a point or two in our lives, Sir. It is the nature of humanity." And, as it is just the two of them, Alfred reaches an arm out, wrapping it around Bruce's shoulders, pulling the younger man into his side. The grip is just this side of tight with the purpose of keeping the vigilante out of his thoughts. Bruce doesn't move out of the hold, just stares.

"I should have—"

"We all should have, Bruce. 'Should haves' will not fix the problem, will it?"

"No," and yes, still a petulant little boy at times, but one that will always own a large part of Alfred Pennyworth's heart since this man is just as much _his son_ as Thomas and Martha's.

Alfred hums in agreement, "then, as I've already advised to your oldest son, work on giving Tim a _reason_ to come back, Bruce."

"If it's not already too late," and the apprehension is there, a slight thread to that tone that only Alfred can pick out, "he might be too far gone, farther than Jason."

"Death is quite far, Bruce," the butler replies with a bit of mirth, a smirk.

It succeeds, gains the desired effect, the younger man chuffing out an abrupt laugh, "true." A sigh lifts his chest and Bruce steps out of Alfred's hold to latch on to the dust cover, to pull it off and look on the car he'd spent a month putting together for Tim, _to make sure his third son didn't end up like his second_.

Bruce's gloved hand pats the hood gently, and he catches the slip of paper stuck under the wiper against the windshield. Curious, he plucks the note and unfolds it.

 _Damian,_

 _Take care of her._

No name. No need for it; anyone would recognize Tim's terrible chicken scratch. Bruce hands the short, sweet note over to Alfred and stares down at the car, mind going back to the old security footage of Tim sitting behind the wheel for the last time, the downturn of his mouth, the tenseness in his back and shoulders when he hung up those keys, walked that bike out, and got on. Everything in that video screamed _pain_ , and he just hadn't acknowledged it at the time because _Dick had been in pain when he gave up Robin, too._

The next step takes shape in his mind as Bruce stares down at the Red Bird, noting the R decals are gone, making way for Damian's…but, that wasn't going to happen.

"I know that look," Alfred teases lightly and the younger man turns, blue eyes a shade lighter with his thoughts.

"I'm going to need a few weeks and some tools. Some heavy tools," Bruce muses to himself. The two men share a grin and look back to the Red Bird with soft eyes.


	5. Chapter 5: Savior

He always had a plan. There's variations, adaptations, risk calculations, and more that go into any plan. One of those calculations-well, multiple- is the bats. Hood and Robin first.

This is a deviation from the original plan, but it's too late for recalculations now. His body is an arch of muscle and bone, viscera, weightless in mid-air while the ticking echoes inside his skull.

He doesn't move from the target, but a hand flicks back to throw a sharp-edged blade behind him as the shoulder of that arm hits Hood in the abdomen. At the same moment, his free arm snags Robin. His momentum throws all of them over the edge of the second floor and down, down to the cement floor below.

He twists the two in mid-air, tangling his arms in theirs, turning so he can take the impact with his back. The two yelling at him goes over his head as the explosion rocks above them, sharp and fierce.  
"FUCK! Why do people always want to blow me up?!" From Hood.

"Red! The line!" From Robin, but he hasn't added that to the equation because he would have to let go of one of them and that wasn't going to happen. He'd made a promise after they went after Damian, after he put that R back on his chest for just a while (promising the moment he had that he'd hand it over of his own free will this time), that neither of them were going back down that tunnel of death. He'd do everything in his power to make sure neither one of them ever went into the forever-dark. They called and he would always come.

It's a promise no one needed to know.

The impact is seconds away and his arms automatically tighten, bracing the two for it. The abrupt stop jars all of them, the force rattling his teeth, spikes of pain all over, but none of it stops him as he rolls them, tucks the two under his body to form a shield from the falling, flaming debris.

The helmet pressing into his chest and neck is colder than he thought it would be, a hand in his shoulder is clenching so hard it makes the joints creak.

"Let up, Robin," he finds himself saying against Robin's sweaty hair.

"Red…" And the kid's voice sounds wrecked (he'll never admit it) and shaky, "why? WHY?"  
"Goddammit, Replacement! Get _up_."

With a grunt, his arms find the strength to push himself off them, to look over his shoulder at the carnage. Pieces of wood and metal mostly fall off his back as he leans back up.

"Fuck," Red is already up on his feet, eyes wide behind the cowl because they wouldn't have survived that blast. "I've gotta check it out. One of you hit up the PD." Fire squad on site would just be peachy right now.

He's moving before Hood's glove latches on to his cape. The material just sides through as Red is leaping on anything he can to carry him back to the top (can't trust the grapple, not with the upper floor about the come down in a ball of _firey holy shit_ ). His legs are longer now, taking him higher with each leap.

He comes to the expected mess at the top, landing at a crouch, one hand out and fingertips on the floor, feeling for vibrations. His eyes scan, taking in the details through the smoky aftermath and. Gingerly, he moves through over the downed supports and pieces of old crates, stepping over a still smoking freight dolly. He hops out of the way before part of the floor gives way and crumbles.

Every piece of the bomb he comes across goes in little bags and stuffed in his harness somewhere, but the smoke and the heat are getting worse, obscuring everything. Sirens are wailing into the night, coming closer (leave some things for their forensic people to find). Time to get out.

Decisively, Red jogs back to the balcony and dives over, effortlessly catching himself this time without the weight of two other people.

He lands without fanfare and lets himself breathe without smoke his face. After a few moments, when the dizziness abates he can stand. What he doesn't expect, however, is for Red Hood and Robin to be dragging unconscious thugs through the warehouse wearing their rebreathers like good soldiers. Fuck. Well, whatever.

He moves, cape swirling around him to grab two from Robin so they can get the fuck out. The good guys are closer and more sirens split the night open.

Red drops his two outside the door, looking back to make sure the two Bats made it out. The other baddies are tied back to back, making them easier to spot, harder to get away if they come to.

Done with that piece, Red coughs again into his forearm, grapple extended for the shot.

A tug at his cape turns him, Robin with a fist-full, eyes hidden behind the domino.

"Red…thank-you," stiff, formal with a hint of sneer. Just like Damian from the moment Dick put him in that costume, chose him. Behind him, Hood is creepily still, hands still hovering over his holster like he's considering the usual grab and pull but can't make up his mind fast enough.

"You call and I'll come," is all he says. The grapple explodes and he's flying, cape jerked from Robin's hand.

 _(Two months ago)_

A year after that warehouse, and he still means it.

The muted, hacked Bat comm just happens to be on his desk when he's suiting up for a night in Gotham after a day of negotiations and political maneuvering that leaves him feeling like some asshole and…whatever. He'll keep doing the job, he'll keep moving forward.

His harness is attached and the cowl (only worn in this city; he wears a domino in San Fran) comes down, breaking the CEO mask wide open.

For probably the tenth time, he looks over at that stupid comm usually sitting in his damn drawer and shakes his head to himself with hands on his hips. Red picks up the fucking thing and fits it into his ear under the cowl. A grimace and he flicks it on, leaving it muted.

Noise and calls explode, so it's a busy night for the Bats.

He's already downstairs, jumping the steps to save time and moving to the special Ducati.

The mass is usually O calling out the what's and where's, sometimes with replies from the Bats on who can or can't fly.

"Got Robin boxed in," O cuts through with static behind her, like Robin's comm blanked out. "The three West Side groups are converging. GPD can't even get there for -"

The rest is white noise as Red opens up the Ducati and _flies_.

It's worse than he expected, wading over the dead like an obscene river. Spent shells are everywhere and no sign of the kid. Red's senses are on hyper alert because he's got to pull Robin out before anything else can be done. Sirens are echoing everywhere, throwing off his perception of _how_ _close_.

"Little mother _fucker_."

Yup, they have to be talking about the kid. Red's on the fire escape overhead and moving around the side of the build where the two merge and box Robin in. He's got major damage to the leg, blood pooling under his and the tights wrecked, but he's still a fighter by nature, baring his teeth in a snarl at all those guns less than a few feet from his face. A wrong move will be the end, Red calculates for less than nine seconds before he moves.

He jumps into them like a bowling ball into pins, throwing the aims off, taking the guns out of the situation first so the heat comes off Robin. And maybe he's a little…rough with the bangers, maybe he goes for the guns hands because _he's a little pissed they were going to shoot Robin_.

And, he wastes too much time because the red and blues are flashing right outside the alley and the kid is pale as hell and panting, looking more shaky than the usual _ow, that shit hurts_. Red huffs a breath out his nose and gives his hands a flick to get some of the blood off his gloves (didn't help). He grabs a tourniquet from his belt, moving Robin's hands and wrapping the leg tight, earning a strangled noise. With it on, the kid tries to shove himself standing because he's a pain in the ass (like Father, like Son). He just buckles right into Red's outstretched arm like planned.

Grapple is already pulling them skyward as the uniforms yell from the mouth of the alley. He's not going to be able to hold Robin and pilot the bike, so swinging and running it is. Besides, the bike is in a good hiding place.

"Dammit," the kid is slurring against his shoulder, "why the hell are you doing this, Drake?"

Arching his body with the added weight, Red is aiming for his apartment because Robin's not going to be stable enough to get to the Cave or Manor.

"Told you, call and I'll show up," is the only reply he's got and hits feet first as the kid finally gives up the ghost and passes out. Not stopping, Red's running full tilt, leaping to the next roof, keeping a watch around them, under them, over them. Limbs dangle bonelessly against him as he sprints.

 _Not part of the plan_ , but he's got the windows tinted and Dami sprawled out on his bed when Tim's ripping the tights out of the way. _Forceps, unopened packages of surgical needle and thread, knock-out juice, antiseptic, all the essentials to a crime fighter's goody bag_.

He works fast when the tourniquet comes off, dodging a muddled punch without really thinking about it because the kid is riding the blood-loss train and Bruce's usual training regimen included fighting by instinct while drugged up so the baddies still get their nightly ass-kicking.

"Drake," the kid slurs while Tim is already putting the needle in the leg and pushing the plunger.

"Damian," he parodies while picking up the forceps, "you've got lead still in the leg. Then, I've got to stitch the bleeder."

But the kid is already back out on his bed, Tim focuses on making sure the kid is out of pain and not going to come to again with fists flying ( _because, you know, he hates me_ ); it doesn't take as long as it should. The bullet isn't nudged against anything important and an artery was nicked, not cut, so a lot of blood but relatively easy clean-up.

He smears more healing goop on his row of neat stitches, hitches on knee up on the bed so he can brace Dami's on top his, and start winding gauze, tight but not too tight. Tim ties it off on the opposite side of the entry wound and stands, his spine emitting a series of sharp cracks. He lets Dami be for the moment and goes to his own closet stepping inside with the door mostly closed and starts disarming himself.

The hidden compartment in the back of the closet houses four of his extra uni's and another set of the harness/utility belt combo because, well, be prepared, right? Nifty enough, the one time he had Kon in one of his spares during a fight with Ra's to act as a distraction had proven he should have been a fucking Boy Scout (because Kon could _act_ when he needed to).

He throws on the generic jeans and t-shirt combo, hiding his uni away to clean up and restock later, once he gets the kid back to—

 _Fuck_ , he's going to have to take Damian back to the Manor himself. Tim pauses at that thought for a very important moment, eyes just staring at the hidden cubby already closed. He breathe in slowly because it was better for him to sneak the kid in the Manor than for the Bats to come pick him up. He throws on a hoodie decisively and snags a thick flannel blanket from the top shelf.

Standing over the kid, over _Robin_ , alive and breathing, Tim is momentarily, absurdly glad he happened to be in Gotham tonight. As much as he used to hate the kid for getting him kicked out of the family, he's come to realize that Damian is _just a fucking kid_. A kid with a psycho mother and grandfather and a whole lot of shitty parenting and death under his belt; had Tim been in his place, how would he have done anything differently? He would have fought to have a place in his Father's legacy, too. Would have tried to take out the competition, so _yeah_ , just like with Hood in the last while, Tim's figured out the motivations behind Damian too.

He gets it now. It's just another step in that whole, _I should never have been Robin in the first place_ thing. The Legacy that never should have gone to him, should have always been Damian's, the True Son. The Stand-In should have just fucked off, right?

Shaking himself ( _if I'd never been Robin, I wouldn't be here to make sure the team keeps moving, to make sure these two assholes don't_ _ **die**_ _again)_ , Tim gives the blanket a rough flip and eases Damian up to wrap it securely around him. He pulls off the domino in case and is carrying the kid through his apartment to the set of stairs leading to the basement. He has a professional car down there (not for night work) since dawn would be creeping over the horizon by the time he started back.

Damian's out cold in the backseat, stretching out because the kid has grown and he's not a short little bastard anymore. Hell, he'd probably outgrow Tim in the next year or two because genetics could _suck it_.

On his way out of the Gotham proper, he's hacking into the Manor's security system on his phone; kind of half-assing it because Bruce will figure it out after patrol anyway ( _and why wasn't Dami wearing his comm?_ ). The timing really couldn't have been any better, Alfred would be in the Cave, anyone on patrol would still be out, and the camera are on a loop for five minutes longer than it would need for him to get inside with Damian carried against the front of his body.

The kid's head is on his shoulder while Tim is standing at the front door, staring at it. He's getting all shaky again, emotional with too many bullshit things, the _wow, it's been a while;_ the _I shouldn't be here, I never should have been here_ ; the _I wonder if they made my room a den or a guest room?_

Four minutes until the loop ends.

Tim makes himself get his shit together because it's _fine_ and grips the handle and eases the main door open, slipping inside. He doesn't pause to take anything in (his unconscious memory records nuances maybe); he moves to the grand staircase on silent feet. He takes the second floor like Red Robin, forcing himself to focus on equations so he _doesn't_ even look at the closed door to what used to be his space, the room next to Dick's. _It's a fucking storage room for old shit now, Tim, just get the kid in bed and get the hell out_.

Damian's room is still in the same place (like the wicked katanna in the corner isn't a dead giveaway). Tim throws back the covers with one hand and lays the kid down easy but fast; his phone is already in hand while the other throws the blankets over.

 _Hey. Need you to get A or B up to demon brat's room._

 ** _Stabby McSlitMyThroat:_** _Baby Bird, you seen R? B is freaking th fuk out, man_

 _the Manor. Upstairs._

Tim's already got the window open, got himself up on the sill when he hears the feet approaching and glances back at the bed to see Dami's eyes open, dazed, but looking right at him. Tim drops out the window. He's already in the car and gone before anyone comes outside, taking the road back to Gotham with his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Tim shoves the hood back from his face and turns up the music because, yeah, metal is good right about now.

 ** _Stabby McSlitMyThroat:_** _B wants your personal cell so he can say thank-you. Said you weren't answering the comm or Red line_

Texting back with his thumb, Tim lets the night close in around him and the car. _Not necessary. Tell him I got the message._

That should have been it, right? Tim just focuses on driving when the thing goes off again.

 ** _Stabby McSlitMyThroat:_** _B said come back and chill for dinner._

 _Can't. Other commitments._

 ** _Stabby McSlitMyThroat:_** _B looks like I kicked his puppy_

 _Titus is too big to kick effectively._

 ** _Stabby McSlitMyThroat:_** _Lol, you dick._

The phone vibrates in his hand a few seconds later, and Tim sighs at himself. He shouldn't have started it and just _fuck_. The music goes down and he hits speaker phone.

"Red."

 _Fuck, I hope this isn't "you should have…" speech._ "What do you need?"

"Thank-you for picking up Robin."

"Yes." And he could see Bruce standing over the kid, still in his under armor, checking out the entry wound under the gauze.

"…Tim."

"Bruce?"

"Come back," the request is a quiet burr over the phone line.

 _No._ "Another time," his default response when any of the Titans ask him to come home with them instead of coming back to Gotham.

Bruce sighs, "soon, Tim. Soon, okay?"

"Soon." Tim parrots back. "Bye Bruce."

"Good-bye, Tim." His nerves ease down because he really dodged a bullet there.


	6. Chapter 6: Team Dynamics

He seriously hates them.

"So, when you say 'stalking,' what you're trying to say is…?" Kon's brows rise, lips pursed in thought.

"How many definitions exist for the word 'stalking'?" Tim just shakes his head, leaning back away from his system and giving Kon _the look_.

Bart is idly kicking his feet just doing civvies and stretched out on the couch in the Perch, "to be real, Rob, you've got more stalkers than should be healthy. I mean, immortal guy with a green fetish is like, creepily obsessed with you. What is he, like 800?"

Well, Tim can't argue there. "It's like a Holmes/Moriarty thing with Ra's, okay? He does something crazy, I have to stop him, he has to try stopping me from stopping him, I fuck with his tech and his bases, he gets mad and calls me Detective. He wants to combine our bloodlines, Black B helps me escape. Meh. It's like, a Wednesday, you know? I hit mid-week when I foil his dastardly plot."

"Dude," Bart peeks over the top of his comic, "that does _not_ make it any less creepy or stalkery."

"'Stalkery' is not a word, asshole."

"Sentiment still fits, _Baby Bird_."

Kon can hear Tim's teeth grinding at that (yeah, because Bart can be a dick), and takes up his previous train of thought.

"So, you're saying Nightwing is into stalking now? I thought that kind of went against the whole Bat-credo? Do you think he hangs around while you sleep and just _watches_? Goes through your garbage to, I don't know, lick your old banana peels or something?"

Now Tim and Bart are staring at his grinning, unrepentant face.

"That's a level or stalker I never want to think about in association with Nightwing or anyone else," Bart makes a face and ducks back to his comic with a shudder.

"I could see Gar doing it." Tim deadpans then his face splits into a grin as Kon and Bart chuckle.

"Totally how he landed Rave. Shit, that's funny—"

"Now, I've got that mental image, thanks douche."

Tim just waves a hand, eyes slowly moving back to his screen, but Kon and Bart aren't deterred. The guy was up here before anyone else got back (yeah, the whole team gets a text message when someone logs back into the Tower's security system _Rob_ ), so he's already had plenty of time to work. Besides, the answer as to _why_ he was back so soon is already intriguing.

Of course, it wasn't a _secret_ , hadn't been since Tim's return from Europe after he pulled the Batman back to the right time/space/whatever. He'd come back as Red Robin with the new uni and cowl and darker persona. Watching him _move_ , watching him _fight_ after he first got back was...a little scary, even for the metas because Red Robin moved like Death incarnate, faster, graceful, more brutal, more efficient than the old flare for the dramatic that he'd learned from Dick or the street fighting he may have picked up from Bruce combined with the pseuo-martial arts from the Snake guy Tim had mentioned. Red Robin was a whole different league of fighter, vastly different from the old Tim that everyone needed training time to get used to this new rhythm, the new guy. Not to mention the guy under it, the new Tim, was also a very different guy, and a lot of the old ways were gone; he'd left that kid behind and grown up while the rest of them still went to school and hung out in their _normal_ lives when they weren't gathered for some crisis or another. Tim didn't go back to school when he came back, just on-line classes while he was doing the good son CEO thing.

Then Tim took up the leader position again (to have a place to go outside Gotham), and at the first team meeting, he'd told everyone in no uncertain terms the Bats were off his emergency contact list, like, _don't call them no matter how fucked up I get_ kind of thing. With all the rumors coming out of Gotham and Tim's half-assed explanation of the events after the Batman vanished (like, you're not Robin anymore? Dude, you were the first Robin with _pants_ , WTF?), not even Raven or Gar argued with him no matter how tight they were with Dick. Tim's separation from the Batfam didn't make sense until a year later, after realized Tim had been snatched and miraculously got himself out with no Bats in sight. So, no calling the Bats in anymore; Tim's just been flying solo, and as much as it wasn't cool, it just _was_.

Thus, Rave poofs in his closet to put the trackers and sensors in his suit because _it was just too fucking bad if he didn't like it_. Kon had called it when the guy just kept not dying but missing the margin by a hairsbreadth.

Now, however—"So, he's just been _showing_ up when you're patrolling Gotham and, what, trying to get you to go out for food, do movie night, and stuff?" Bart pushes. "Like, he's trying to be your big bro again or something?"

Tim turns away from the data again and sighs, brows furrowing, "it's—I don't know. Him _and_ Batman. It's…sudden. I've already disabled the tracker in the comm, I change the frequency coding every time I go back so Oracle can't trace it, and they still find me. I'm sure I'm hitting some security camera somewhere she can see, but it's just—"

Kon crosses his arms over his chest and folds his legs to he can float crossed-legged in front of his best friends, "well, what did they _say_? I mean, did they tell you why you're just suddenly Employee of the Month?"

Tim gives a half shrug, "something about being off the radar too long from Hood's estimation. Batman, well—"

Bart and Kon exchange an _uh-oh_ look.

"Batman said he didn't expect me to leave the family because of the whole "Robin" thing, but…I mean, that's not—" Tim sighs and shakes his head. "It's fine. I'll deal with it."

And, that blank expression is back, the one Tim started adopting after he escaped from—Kon's chest aches for him because that flash of memory, of just Tim laying out in his perch unconscious on the bathroom floor with blood everywhere and…

The meta just forces himself to grin, to shove that moment back in a box in the corner of his mind, and hold out both hand, palm up, "okay, okay. How about this? Maybe…just _maybe_ , all the Bats are really Pod-People and you're the _only_ one that can out them? Eh? Ehhhh?"

And Tim…Tim just stares, again. Since it's one of the rare instances he's without a domino and in full suit, so Kon can be fully aware of the _you're a dumbass_ expression because, you know, he needs to be reminded sometimes. The meta is just grinning away, completely ignoring _the look_.

Bart just blinks, "what the hell are _pod-people_?"

Both heroes slow turn to stare at him, horrified. "You've never seen _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_?"

Bart just arches a brow at them and sighs, ignoring their terrible B-Movie obsession (really, it's unhealthy, you wierdos).

Not that he wants to be a dick to Tim or anything because the guy _is one of his best friends_ , but as he seemingly goes back to his new issue of The Ultimate Avengers, he finally gets that it might be time for some tough love because **_fuck those guys_**. Wally and Barry had seriously come through for Bart when the insurgents were beat, the old and new Flash running him out of the 'my head is still screwed because I can't stop thinking about Gar's memories' while Bat- _bastard_ just turned his back on Tim like…Bart just breathes through his nose, slow and easy (besides, Barry didn't want to hang with his old sidekick anymore anyway).

"Seriously," he deadpans, "you two are morons. Tim, dude, man, compadre. I love you like a brother, but this foreplay between you and them has gotta stop."

Tim doesn't even look away from his system and whatever detective shit he's obviously trying to do to ignore them, "what is that supposed to mean?"

Bart is staring at Iron Man's repulsor blast panel, but he's got that image too, of cleaning up the mess that was Tim's back and no one in Gotham even _knew…_

"Stop. Helping. Them." The speedster bites out. " _Period_. You get a call and go running or you spend days doing _what the fuck ever_ to get them what they need. Stop. It. Throw away the damn Bat-Comm, change your celly, give 'em their system admin rights, give 'em that stupid company, and just _let them handle their own shit_. Move your stuff to the Tower, make this your main base, and tell them to suck it. Tim, man, _bro_ , dig their claws out, kay?"

Tim's eyes stay on the big screen (even though he's not working anymore), mouth tight, and Bart just sighs.

"The only one that calls is Hood, and yeah, I go back for him."

"And for business crap," Bart adds.

"And the annoying kid," Kon corrects, and well, _shit,_ neither of them are wrong.

" _Because reasons_ , right?" Bart snarks at him.

"Hey, B, I already pulled my damn profile from BI, okay? I took myself off their roster, so that shit is half done anyway."

Kon and Bart both freeze, eyes wide at the guy that used to sing the Batman's praises. The two do that eye-slide thing where their heads don't move.

"But, yeah. Hood and Robin, I just…I'm not going back on it, okay? If one of them calls, I'm going to go." He doesn't mean to be so harsh, but yeah, it's not loyalty that keeps him moving. It's that fucking promises he made back when Alfred offered him that R for the trip to Darkseid. It's not something he can back down from, not any more than he can walk away from hitting the streets. He can't just _give up_ Gotham yet. Someday maybe. Well, someday sooner than later if shit keeps going like this.

And then, the little voice reminds him _Jason and Dami are back in the family now. They don't need you watching their backs anymore._

"Tim—," Bart sighs at Kon's angry ( _unfuck this_ ) face, "man, don't take it like that, okay? I know you got your start with them, right, because I was there for some of it. I _get_ what they mean to you. But—but things just _change_ , people change, and that's okay if you outgrew them or they outgrew you or whatever. Look, I don't hang out with Barry anymore either because he's not the same guy since he gave up the big F, so I'm with you on that level, you know?" KF finally tosses the comic book, sitting up to look at his team mates because, well, they didn't know about his break with Barry (Tim feels instantly like ass that he didn't _know_ ).

"I'm sorry, B," Tim gives up on trying to get anything done with these two and stands from the system, moves to stretch out beside him on the couch, leaning over to brace his elbows on his knees. "I thought you and Barry were still tight."

Bart shrugs a shoulder, giving a tight smile that is _very_ out of character for the kid, "like I said: things change."

Tim doesn't even hesitate, but slings his arm around KF's shoulders, pulling him in (watching to make the gauntlet doesn't nick him). "Well, it doesn't help that you're a little pain in the ass, you know." But, Tim's eyes are twinkling in mirth.

Bart barks out a laugh, "dude. I hate your face."

"Nah, if I didn't give you shit, you'd think I was mad at you."

"True."

Kon just easily floats over to Bart's other side, arms crossed over his chest, "so—?"

Bart averts his eyes, "Wally. I've been…yeah. Wally's the new guy, the new Flash, so, you know. I told him I'd go back to the Impulse suit if he didn't want me keeping it, I mean, I _get that_ , right? He didn't choose me or anything. And, Wally just stared at me like I was crazy, said I'd earned it just as much as he did, so I could go back if I wanted to but he was fine with me keeping the ident. I mean, the Speed Force and stuff." Bart shrugs again, "he's been cool, chilling with me when we break, so I'm not just out there running or ditching school, okay? We work together, it's…more than I expected. It's totally fine."

Tim and Kon believe him because he's actually grinning, the real thing. "Actually, it's been real—I dunno. It feels like we work better together, we have the same hobbies or something. We get along better than Barry and I did. Wally doesn't act like I'm this terrible responsibility, you know?"

Tim's brows draw together in that way and Bart instantly wishes he'd kept his mouth shut because _Red Robin_ is in that guy's face right now (he should call Barry later, just in case).

"And I can be, you know? Super metabolism," Bart hurries. "It's good now because Wally just gets it more. We're a team."

That appeases Tim who doesn't lose the look necessarily (yup, still calling Barry to tell him to watch his back because _reasons_ ) but seems more relaxed.

Kon just floats over to give him a sharp rap on the back, "KF, you can always come and visit. Ma and Pa like the hell out of you."

Bart rolls his eyes, "I can get the day's chores done in, like fourteen seconds, man. Of _course_ they like me."

"Dude, don't ever milk Bessie again. Like, _ever_.

"Hey, I learned!"

"Don't care what you learned, just no. But, you're the only friend I have that helps Ma cook."

"Because she _rocks_ at making pie."

Tim nods in solemn agreement. Ma Kent's pies are _legend_ (Alfred would hate him for life if he ever heard Tim say it out loud).

But, the two younger Titans just look over at Tim, something in their eyes that makes the instinct in him flinch because he wasn't anyone's responsibility anymore, right? Not even the Titans.

"So, what are you going to do about Stalk-Wing and Bat-Creep?" Bart props his cheek up in one hand, a brow arched.

Tim gives a one-shouldered shrug (he still has the slow motion trap somewhere in the storage room because that would really suck for a former Flash, wouldn't it?).

"For now, I'm going wait for whatever is going to fall." Not the easy answer because at the end of the day _what else could he do but leave Gotham behind_? If he's looking at this in the right light, and those two are watching him to get an excuse to take away his vigilante card, then he'd deal with it too.

"Red."

 _Not who he expected_. Even though he has no need to, Tim's eyes go up to look at the speakers in the ceiling of his perch because, really, this didn't happen often. It had in the past, the kid had called him out of San Fran, but the instances were few and far between.

"Robin. What do you need?" His hands automatically still rather than go on typing a report (instead of trying to dig into the last instance of The Light that came very close to taking out Bart).

The hesitation is enough to make him furrow his brows, "Robin?"

"Drake. When will you be returning to Gotham?"

 _Okay, so we're not going by the pseuds, whatever_. "Next month, no board meetings until then. Damian," and he pauses, "what's wrong?"

The youngest Bat gets the huffy pain-in-the-ass mask back on because he's pretty harsh when he snaps, "is it true, what Father has claimed? You removed yourself from the mainframe completely?"

Now, Tim's the one hesitating, crossing his arms over his chest and slightly relieved they're not in person for this. He and Dami just didn't have a good track record for talking calmly. "Yes, it's true. "

"Damn you, Drake."

Pause. _See? Terrible track record._

"Dami," he stands, the cape falling around him, the domino showing white in the reflection off the big screen.

"You are a fool." The younger seems like he's getting exasperated and Tim's got nothing, absolutely nothing on the whys or what fors of this whole conversation.

"That's kind of mild for you," Tim observes, "now what the hell is this about?"

Just like the rest of the Bats, Dami deflects with the best of them. "Come back to Gotham. The sooner, the better."

"I'm going to say it again: what is this about, Damian?"

"I will tell you when you arrive. Send a message to my cellular phone the moment you are in town."

"Dami—"

" _Drake_ , I am not joking. You are needed here. Come. To. Gotham."

"Fine. I'll leave in a few days," he tests out. If it's a case, the kid would start on the timeline.

"Which words in 'the sooner, the better' were too complex for you to comprehend?"

"Well, if some angry troll would give me the details, maybe I would feel like putting my ass in gear. But, all hush-hush stuff, right?" _Not like B or N is going to let me get back out of Gotham with my fucking cape anyway._

"Drake. You have said you would come should I call. Here I am calling."

 _Little fucker_ , Tim sighs through his nose. "I'll be as fast as I can."

"…I will await you."


	7. Chapter 7: Coffee

A/N: Ah, hello! I'm very sorry I forgot I was putting this little number here as well as on AO3, which is where I mainly update. As of now, Fracture is 25 chapters deep and I have another title "Distractions" for a hodgepodge of other things from this universe. A whole bunch of 'What-if' I guess. Glad some people here are in the fandom and rock Tim Drake. Here is one of our turning points.

It's early or late, depending on perception. With the sleep dep he's riding, his brain is running at more than full capacity because sometime that's what it takes for the _detective_ to see another angle; it's all about another perspective. He's always known that, why the hell else would he screw with his body and stay awake for almost 80 hours at a time ( _because nightmares, asshole_ , yeah well, that too). He hadn't slept on the plane, just worked, and held himself away from whatever the hell he may be walking into, why Dami just suddenly wanted a pocket-detective. The implications aren't good. Regardless, he texted the mutant before deciding he needed to just _do something_ other than wait to go into WE for the day. Hell, the kid might not show up for days, with him, who knew?

He's wearing his old favorites: ripped jeans, faded periodic table t-shirt, grey hoodie fraying at the sleeves with the hood pulled over the backwards cap, and beat-up DC's, black and orange. He feels like he's in his own skin again, not the tailored-suit CEO, not the body-armored vigilante, but the regular guy named Tim. He's got his iPod and ear buds in, the beat-up skateboard in one hand because he's only going a few blocks away from the apartment and there's no need for a car or a bike. _Low profile_.

Besides, the last time he boarded in San Fran was a catastrophe. Seriously, hills from hell. Kon laughed like a douche, Tim had pleasantly held up the (empty, no kryptonite on campus, _dude_ ) leather pouch in two fingers, guy immediately shut up.

Here, though, he moves with the board like a natural instinct, like breathing deep. His mind doesn't have to think about it while the techno-punk is rattling around in his brain pan; his legs and feet know his center of balance, his body is taller, broader but still moves with the grace needed to ride; the same grace needed to fly, needed to walk a thinning rafter, the ledge of a building. It's a slight comfort that some things don't change.

He promptly thanks whatever powers that be for 24-hour bakeries when the lady hands him his box, and he flops the board back down to ride back. He's got coffee in one hand and the box held up in the other. The music changes up to metal, _Five Finger Death Punch_ and after that, _In This Moment_ because Maria Brink. Enough said.

The _Tim_ he is in this moment is the old school skater punk, but that doesn't stop the ingrained instinct from flaring at the shadows in his peripheral ( _Jason's silhouette as the Hood sitting on the fire escape across the street_ ). Nor does it stop him from taking a second to consider his response to Bab's tersely worded e-mail from last night.

_Stop hacking my databases. All you had to do was ask._

And he could have. He could have told her to remove his admin rights from the BI mainframe, could have told her it was time to start separating himself for the final move _out_ of Gotham proper ( _just keep one safe house in case you get another call…)_. All in all, he could set up in some other big city, maybe just get his own place in San Fran away from the Tower and insist on video conference meetings from out there.

No, not with the Titans there because he's never escape the constant tracking, worrying, spandex-clad worriers. Didn't mean he couldn't set-up in New York, Chicago, L.A., any of the criminally-charged places in the US ( _none of them would ever be home, but after a while, anywhere could be close enough_ ). He could sell the last things his parents left him (the house, creepily more empty than his childhood mind remembered), so there'd be nothing to hold him, nothing to come back to, and he could go with a clear conscience. He could ask her to remove his profile once he's out and move on with his day.

His feet tilt the board to make a wide semi-circle around to the reinforced garage doors ( _Oracle, it's time. Remove user from all systems. Sorry it's come to this._ Sounds too much like he's giving up the gig. _O, Giving you all Admin Rights to BI, remove me from the sys. Will be leave G to the Bats. Nice working with you._ That…didn't sound any better. _No time for BI admin, take me out of the sys. Your baby now._ Somewhat better, less dark.). He kicks down on the board to make it pretty much jump into his hand with the coffee on top the bakery box and glances around (using his "feelers") to make sure no one's around to watch him open the key pad and tap out the new passcode because _fucking Jason_.

The door slides up silently and back down once he's inside. New motion detectors FTW.

Balancing the coffee on top the baker's box is done flawless and without conscious thought, skateboard in the other hand as he takes the steps two at a time to get to his main floor. While he's waiting for the next whatever to fall, or Dami to show up, for a business day to start, he has some data to work on and a new boxed set of _Firefly_ to watch while crunching the usual numbers. If Damian didn't call in a few hours, he'd get dressed for his day at the office and have to put on an entirely different mask.

For the moment though, he revels in chugging the coffee and the sweet smelling baker's box because really, he doesn't do junk food anymore, just once and a while with the Titans after a bad run of _holy shit, we lived through that_ (the kid is the one with the sweet tooth now, not to mention Jason always seems to have some kind of ESP when it comes to fresh doughnuts; funny considering he'd think Dick would be more the picture of the stereotype).

Speaking of which, the knock on the door is right on time for Jason's doughnut obsession and Tim huffs out a laugh while the dredges of the coffee settle on the back of his tongue. He doesn't bother taking the hood down as he crosses the room and unlocks the deadbolts with practiced hands. His mind doesn't process _door versus window_ because, shit, everyone has an off night.

So the smart ass comment in his mouth dies abruptly when he swings open the reinforced steel door and every muscle tenses in a _fight_ instinct because _reasons_ ; but in all honesty, he really should have expected something like this to happen eventually since Dick has been making _too much of an effort_ to seek him out (actually he did, but he anticipated them coming through the window in the normal theatrical way further down the line, you know, when he was already on his way back to San Fran). Not to mention the Batman had to make an appearance to "help him out." No coincidences with the Bats; something is brewing for them to start coming around again out of nowhere, and he's been fine with waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then again, who could even predict they would just show up at his front door knocking like _regular people_? Like an idiot, he answered the damn door without checking to make sure it was _Jason or Dami_. Fucking sleep dep.

Dick is in jeans, sunglasses, T-shirt, and jacket; Bruce in jeans and a hoodie (that's right _in a hoodie_ ) with the hood pulled up, but it's Dami that pushes his way past the two grown men at his door to level a look at Tim.

"Here," he digs around in the market bag and pushes a pound of ground coffee into Tim's hands. "Consider this a housewarming gift. I assume your machine is still in the same place, Drake."

Blinking in aforementioned sleep deprivation and surprise, Tim actually grins down at him. "Yup. Knew you'd be pissed if I actually got rid of it, you know."

The youngest Wayne huffs and walks past Tim into the apartment, going for his kitchen by previous knowledge.

"It's always a pleasure when you do something with good sense," in his teenage years, Damian's tall enough that he doesn't have to hop up on the counter anymore to dig around for the small espresso cups. He knows where they are by habit and turns to the machine to start it up. Of course, he ignores the perfectly normal coffee already brewed in the pot because anything less than espresso is 'dirty water' to him ( _and is why he will always be a little shit_ ).

Tim doesn't bother giving the older Bats a second look because neither of them called him back but just follows the kid to the kitchen with the bag in hand (putting his back to them was hard), letting them find their own way in and closing the door behind themselves. Tim opens the bag, inhaling the rich scent. "This smells really good."

Dami glances back at him, satisfied. "It is an excellent choice, yes? Pennyworth purchases it for me as well."

Tim hums and sets the fresh box of doughnuts on the table while Dick and Bruce hover at the threshold from the entertainment area to the kitchen, probably unsure of their welcome (don't break in next time, _Dick_ ).

Damian hands Tim the first cup and takes the second one for himself, inhaling the richness because, well, coffee just brings people _together and not always for_ _ **stabbing**_ _purposes_. The two move amicably to sit at the table in agreeable silence until Dick takes a chair out to sit with them.

"None for me?" He asks with a feigned hurt look.

"I'm sure you and Father can figure out how to use the machine without destroying it," Damien returns pleasantly (Tim arches a brow at the kid, wondering what the elder Bats did to piss him off but realizes it's really not his business and goes back to savoring his espresso).

"Cups are there," he waves a hand in the general direction and pushes the box of sweets at Dami because the lady just _gave_ him two peanut butter crème filled ones (not that he'd given a vague finger point because the little shit loved them best).

Dick just grins and looks closer at Tim, who is engrossed in his coffee. A chuff might be a laugh from Bruce who has taken the hood down but ambles deceptively calm to the counter.

Dami opens the box a little and peeks in, then his face twists into satisfaction with the prizes inside. Tim opens the lid, discreetly pointing at the two with fluffy-looking light mocha cream coming out of the tops; the kid snatches them both as he predicts.

The machine finally goes still as the two elders get their little cups, and it seems like Dami is waiting until they find seats before he starts, one of the creamy delights already _gone_ because, well, he's a teenager now, right? Endless pit of hunger.

"Drake," the kid begins formally, "we are here…to make a request of you."

At some point, he'd been sitting with his head in one hand and his eyes start to slide closed on him. At that, _a request_ from the Bats, the pressure of sleep eases up and Tim straightens, blank expression.

"You made it sound important on the phone, so what do you need?" Rote. He sees Dick flinch out of the corner of his eye. It doesn't bother him anymore because the way Damian is assessing him is the reason he's back. "I'm going into WE this morning to check up on things, then I'm going to head back to the Tower. I can finish up whatever you need from there."

Dami hesitates, eyes darting away. "Actually, we need you in Gotham for this, Drake. Is your team waiting for you to return?" Damian's careful way of asking if they had the usual shit storm of baddies or Tim's tendency to deal with run-of-the-mill crime.

But, no. The Titans were all leaving today to go back home anyway (they had, you know, _lives_ ), and in the interim, he's just doing the usual _something_ to fill time before the next big bad comes to his doorstep because it always does.

Nope, he's leaving to stay away from THIS. This new and uncomfortable scrutiny from the Bats because he knows what's going on here, can feel it coming down the line (which would explain why they're all here now: _Sorry, Timmy, but it's time to give it up, hand in the cape, try being_ _ **normal**_ _for a few years and come back if you've still got the backbone for it. No, no, not that you aren't_ _ **capable**_ _or anything, but why not just be the intel guy, get off the streets for a while, take a vacay, take a_ _ **break**_ ). That's why the sudden… interest.

His forces himself to keep calm while his heart already picks up, his mouth going dry at the many implications this conversation may have. There are too many "requests" this could be (like a one-way trip back to Arkham if Dick still thinks he might be a little fucked up in the head and by the way the guy is eyeing him, could be a likely scenario).

He's already working plans, multiple ways of taking each of them down, if they're here to detain him because _who fucking knew_.

Carefully, Tim lays his hands on top the table, muscles deceptively loose under his hoodie. "Tell me what you need and I'll weigh the workload," he offers.

Dami's eyes, now a dark and pressing jade from his own time in the afterlife (Jason's faded back to his natural color after a few years but always go back when the Pit's influence is riding him), are clearly calculating as he sips at the hot drink. More calm than Tim can believe, the kid just starts with, "before I tell you this, you must swear you will listen to everything before giving an answer. Do you agree?"

Getting answers the hard way, but Tim nods as Dick takes a doughnut and Bruce sips his espresso. He keeps his eyes from automatically going to the third cupboard on the right with the false back, the escape route none of them knew about. The drawer above it has a latch, one knock to it, and paralyzing pellets would fall. The counter has a spot with a retractable bo hidden (ironically, a gift from Ra's when he took down the Seven last time to save Tam).

He has _options_ , but none of his planning prepares him for Dami's very tight statement: "Father, Grayson, Todd, and I request you give us another chance."

Tim blinks, uncomprehending. _Very not what I expected_.

Maybe he _is_ more tired than he thought? Certain lengths of sleep dep can start up with the hallucinations ( _that man coming for him in his own bed; Kon covered in blood, reaching a hand out; his Dad with a skeletal smile; the Joker's crowbar with his name all over it_ ). His mouth opens slightly, breathe in, closes again with a 'click.'

Dami holds out placating palms when there is no immediate response and Drake is just _staring_ at him; he is _uncomfortable_ with that look on the older man's face. "We are requesting you allow us the _time_ and the _cooperation_ we require in order to earn your trust, Drake. Nothing large to begin with; rather, we shall start small. Patrol with me tonight, just tonight, then return to your team. When you are in Gotham next, patrol with Grayson for just _one_ night, even though I am fully aware of his propensity to be nothing short of annoying, it will be a start."

Dick gaps in mock-hurt, but Dami just levels a look at him. "I do not like to be hugged into submission, Grayson. We have had this discussion _more than once_."

Back to Tim, and Dami's eyes change _just a little_ at the blatant surprise/disbelief that is still there, skepticism, assessment, anger, he expected, but not this. Drake draws back in his seat, like he does not know how to take such an invitation; as though he doesn't not **believe**.

 _Perhaps Grayson and Father have a point in this course of action_ , the youngest grudgingly realizes while looking directly at Drake's face closely, watching for the reactions coming across. He…does not like what he sees.

"It is…a great deal to ask for, Drake, I am aware; however, take a chance to contact us, just _once_ for back-up should you need it. Come to the cave for medical treatment _just once_. If you are able to feel more comfortable, then tell us how you escaped your captors as Timothy Drake-Wayne months ago. Or, tell us about the Insurgent Crisis of which we know little but... with a reputation that proceeds itself. Give us pieces of these events if the full story is...unsettling." Dami sighs a little at him and that irksome _expression_ , "This is what we are asking of you. Allow us the opportunity to show you that you are indeed part of the family, have always been."

Tim keeps staring, silent and assessing, but a muscle in his jaw ticks where Father and Grayson cannot see.

"Call it a trial of sorts," Dick supplies.

Dami nods with a ' _there you are_ ,' flourish of hands. "Should the family fail you, then by all means, return to being a lone vigilante and we will not bother you again. You have nothing to lose in this."

And the fuck he _doesn't_. The utter ridiculousness of that statement just makes him chuckle darkly, no real mirth in it. "Nothing to lose?" He draws out, looking up at Dami and the kid looks a little uneasy, like he's reevaluating those words. It's funny because it's fucked up how Dami doesn't get it, the impact, because _he already lost it all once_. Bruce and Dick, they're waiting for an answer, but his throat is just suddenly thick with things left unsaid, the past he used to _choke_ on. The things he moved on from.

"I'm surprised this is coming from you, you know," he's so proud of how normal he sounds, how quiet his voice is when he should be **_fucking screaming_**. "Considering our history…I thought you'd be fine with how things are now."

The youngest Wayne blinks at that, and for an almost thirteen year old, he looks a little too worn around the edges.

"Timothy," and that's Dami, _saying his name_ . Really saying his name. "I do not need to tell you that I was not a good person in the beginning. You already _know_ this, but I had believed…had _thought_ you and I are finally at some kind of understanding. It has taken us time to get there, and it has not been easy for either of us; however…I would not give you up willingly." And it's so very _stark_ that Tim's more than a little shocked, _Dami_ of all people wouldn't… Tim doesn't know how to process it because _he's the one that made the promise_.

"When I first, when Father went missing and presumed _dead_ …well, perhaps you were right to fight with Grayson about Robin because I-"

" **No**." Tim's voice is Red Robin: hard, unyielding, cutting the youngest off, and now it's Dami's turn to just stare. "No, I goddamned _wasn't_ . At the time, I was an asshole, okay, so just **no** ." _Because I didn't see how much you were mourning the death of your father, like I mourned the death of mine and Bruce and Steph and Kon and Bart.._. "Fuck no. Look, Baby Bat, really, I don't need-"

"You do," Bruce finally speaks up, "believing you'd been thrown away speaks for how much you need to hear this, Tim."

He looks at the older man and whatever is in his expression (because Bruce usually sees beyond the bullshit) makes the man under the mask reach for his hand and squeeze, not immediately letting go afterwards even though Tim seizes up with the instinct to pull back, forces himself not to.

Dick takes up the torch, his knee bouncing with energy under the table, and it takes a good second for Tim to be able to look at him without the automatic response to get up and move away. But, yeah, Dick's had his shit kicked around in the last few years too, hasn't he? The joking pain in the ass is more of an act, a desperate attempt at being his old self than the _real_ man. Being the Batman took its toll.

"I did it all wrong," Dick's eyes catch his and latch on, "and I admit that. I told you that you were my equal, Tim, and I _meant_ that, still do. At the time, I didn't treat you like it. I took Robin from you by force and that was wrong. We should have talked and agreed **together** on how to handle what I knew would be the right call. I should have let you hand Robin over on your own after you got where I was coming from because Dami **did** need it. He needed it just like I did all those years ago, and Jason needed it, and you needed it. I saw it coming when we thought Bruce was dead, that the kid was close to the edge and something needed to happen to stop him from going over. Robin was that thing, but I never _told_ you any of it. I just expected you to do what I asked because you always did." The sadness behind _you always trusted me_ is there because, well, he doesn't now, and Dick finally realizes it (he _sees_ how things are now).

Tim jerks his eyes away, sure he's still schooling himself. "I get that now, Dick, and Dami's done the Legacy proud. He's an awesome Robin." Tim massages the bridge of his nose. This is all very…not what he expected coming back to Gotham, a case, a fight, a pull of his vigilante card, sure, maybe a few hours sleep, work on the sims he's developing, but the Bats have him at a total loss because _fuck_ who asks for another chance in a family ( _nope, sleep's not happening tonight, not after this_ )? "It's not an issue." _Anymore_.

Dick just stares at him because he knows this is where everything started to go terribly wrong, where the teenager started getting his resources together to be able to stand without a safety net.

Damian clears his throat uncomfortably, "you have…Drake, you have come to my aid multiple times in the last year, so I have assumed we were on more amicable grounds." Damian's eyes go dark, distant, "I was the one… _surprised_ when you came for me, with the others." Enough said because the teen's voice goes just a bit…wobby, like it does when he even _mentions_ his time on the other side.

Tim's gaze sharpens at the teenager. He opens his mouth, but the youngest seems on a roll now,

"The last gang war, the Triple Threat attack, should have been another instance of my stupidity," Damian's staring at the table but _his eyes_ , "and yet, you pulled me from death in the cross fire and made certain I was tended." And for Damian Wayne, the memory is _there_ because as Grandfather always said, _fear is the etching in a good novel_. He can tell himself he was foolish for getting pinned down, for not being fast enough to avoid the round that took his leg out of commission. The four members of the Scion Sect were right up on him, automatics out, and nowhere to go; he had flashed on the moment he died the first time, of the pain when that sword penetrated his body with a sickening twist, but he did not fear it. Instead, he feared that Father would fall apart and descend into madness, feared that Grayson would change even more (would lose more of _himself_ ), feared that his death would be in vain—a useless thing, feared that he would never be allowed to set the wrong things he'd done in his life _right_ (The Year of Blood and the damage done to Timothy Drake).

But, the Red Robin had stepped between him and death that time; the elder vigilante appeared out of the black, snarling while he made perfectly certain none of the four ever would hold a gun without pain. His memory fades when Red comes back to him, picks him up because he recalls how hot the metal of that harness was against his cheek; there's vague instances of coming around in Drake's room of this apartment with a fight as all Robins were trained to do. The eyes and face had eased him, even with his blood on those hands that were digging fragments out and stitching him up. The last instance of being carried to the front door of the Manor, looking up to see Drake's bare face twist into something distressing for an instant before he snuck them into the entry and carried him up to his room. Drake had put him in bed and been out the window too fast for Damian to call out to him; moments later, Todd opened his door without knocking, Alfred in tow.

The eyes finally focus on Tim's face, and he's a little shaken that Dami looks so oddly fragile. "I-am determined to make amends for the wrongs I have committed, Timothy. There are…many during my tenure with the League of Assassins, but here in Gotham, my treatment of you is my greatest regret. I did not understand how family was supposed to function since I had _no reference_ , you understand? I was wrong, and I am not ashamed to admit it. Allow me this opportunity, Timothy."

It's so earnest, so bare and raw that the _promise_ rears up again. Tim's fist works in and out of clenching on his leg; his voice this side of hoarse. "I'll always come, Damian. _Always_." The eyes take on a darker blue and he's vehement, "because it's not going to _fucking happen again_. Not to you, not to Jason, not if I can stop it. You call, I'll come."

It's no small promise. The Red Robin has his share of changes; Ra's understands he's a force to be reckoned with now. Fuck, most the criminals in Gotham were starting to take a step back when the Red Robin comes out of the shadows and bares his teeth in a snarl.

Dami is looking away, a pinched expression on his face because all those instances of _you call, I'll come_ make sense now and this man, the one he wronged, would still pull him from death. "Then I will parrot you, Drake. After everything, you would do this? Make this promise? Come here at my request to fulfill it?" A harsh laugh sounds too close to tears for Tim's comfort, and out of nowhere, he just has this crazy picture of what the inside of Damian Al Ghul Wayne must be, a well of confusion and anger and hope and the desire to do the right thing, to throw off the League as much as he can, to atone and be forgiven…

Easily, no thought required, Tim pushes his chair back and stands up, drawing everyone's gaze. He moves beside the table, watching the younger kid try and pull himself back together, to hide behind _the brat_ because _they all had their masks, didn't they_? Not this time.

Tim silently holds out both arms and waits.

And Dami, poor Dami that always suspects a trick, a trap, a test, blinks once (to hide his watery eyes) and abruptly stands, fists already clenched to hide the minute tremble most people would have missed…not the Detective. The one that is always looking for the next clue. Tim gets it; the last few years have had him believing that the outer shell is just the real kid, and then finding something very different in the center. Without being too pushy about it ( _Dick_ ), he just folds around the shorter kid, not as abrupt as Dick or encompassing as Bruce, but just comforting and warm.

"You've come so far," Tim finds himself saying, "I'm proud of you, Dami." Surprise of surprises, he realizes he means it. Because the kid that had been reared as a killer grew into one that would die to protect people he'd never meet again. Dami must believe that too since his shoulders tighten. Tentatively, arms come around and hands fist in the back of his T-shirt.

"You are as idiotic as Grayson," but it's a thick voice buried in his shoulder and Dami, Dami just holds on.

"Yeah. Like that spinning back kick, I picked up his worst habits, right?" They both ignore Dick's quiet laughter in the background.

Damian guffaws, laughing now and life… Life is still shit but holds the potential for better things.

"I mean, you suck sometimes, but I'd do anything for you."

"And this is a requirement of family, is it not?" The teenager's fists clamp down.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess so."

With that, they let go, they're both composed and the air seems to calm. The two take their seats to finish coffee and let the elder sags around the little cup; he'll go back to the Tower in a few days, after he processes this little revelation.

"Tonight then?" It's Tim's answer to the bigger question.

Dami just nods but his eyes are content.

"Okay."

Dami made his excuses to go down to the same all night bakery, something about picking up things for Alfred but Tim knew it was part embarrassment over the hug and part Bat planning as Dick and Bruce eye him rather than watching the teenager head out the door.

"We're serious about this, Tim." Bruce keeps his voice gentle, eyes for his third son.

"I can tell," he doesn't look up, doesn't look at either of them. "Siccing Dami on me, that was a risk."

Bruce just arches a brow and Tim has to wonder.

"I'll play it by ear. We'll see how it goes."

He's made himself another cup of espresso just to calm himself because just Dick and Bruce make him edgy as hell, and he knows better to make any promises.

"There's a lot more we don't know, isn't there?" Dick tries to make his voice gentle, the 'concerned big brother' that hasn't been there for a long time.

Tim pauses mid-drink, his free hand by his leg clenches. He deflects with the best of them.

"Why now?" And it's the question he's wanted to ask since Batman showed up as his 'partner' for patrol. "Things were moving fine and now I've got Bats everywhere. Even in my damn window, _Jason_."

A gloved hand slides under the crack (that wasn't there when he got home or even when he originally opened the front door) and nudges the window up so the Red Hood can ease himself in.

"Hey Baby Bird," the guy comes to sit across from Tim and tap in the codes to release his helmet.

Tim just shakes his head, "you can always come in, you know. We had that talk about it. Don't kill me in my sleep and you can totally kype some cereal and crash on the couch."

Jason just sighs with a wiry grin, "I know, I know, but it's all about the _temptation_."

The two share a laugh over it, and Tim waves him away to raid the regular coffee pot and box of doughnuts. Jason takes his cup down and pours sugar in, and Tim graciously doesn't say anything about helmet hair.

Quietly, he talks over the pouring, "They've just figured it out recently, Baby Bird. That's why they're here."

Tim stares at the table, not at any of the Bats around him.

"What set this off?" He asks instead.

Jason shrugs as he pulls out the coffee creamer from the fridge and lies like butter won't melt in his mouth, "not sure. How about it, Bat-dad? Big Bird?"

Bruce's eyes hadn't left his two sons being more amicable than normal when he's called out again. The man's dark blue eyes turn a shade darker.

"I have a list," He admits, "a long list before Dick broke into your place. Instead of pushing, I was waiting for the right time, Tim." Bruce ducks his head a little, but his third son still doesn't look at him and the hood is still in the way of his face. "Like I said, I thought giving you time, space you needed to be the vigilante _you_ wanted to be was the best choice. I was wrong. After your team went through the Insurgent Crisis" Tim's shoulders tighten at the mention, "I should have—well, there's a lot of things I should have done. There's a reason no one but the Titans know about everything that happened and refuse to speak of it, why there's so little data in the League database. That's where the trail started for me. It became very clear I had lost a great deal when I knew almost nothing about the last year of your life, Tim, not to mention Tam always deflects for you when I show up at Wayne Enterprises. That's more of a bad sign than I'm comfortable with."

Jason slides into Dami's old seat, picking out a doughnut. "You've got Tam sending away Bruce Wayne from his own company?" And he looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

 _Dammit, Tam_. "No," Tim replies quietly, rubbing his temples because he never actually told her to keep Bruce out of his hair, "Tam was probably… I don't know, panicking. Or questioning my sanity, or-"

"Panicking?" Dick makes it a question.

He hesitates, "either I was out of commission in the back office or she didn't want me to mention the authority change. I've had the paperwork ready forever depending on who comes to take over. Tam knows it, know where it is. She's just…not happy about it."

All three of them blink at him, non-comprehending.

"To give Bruce back his shares, make him CEO again." Tim says slowly as if it should be obvious, "or Dick or Dami. Whoever decides to take over." He just shrugs at Jason, "I know you'd hate it so I didn't-"

"You're right. I sure as hell don't want it." The gloved hand tightens more at the implications.

Tim just sighs, "this was never supposed to be a forever thing, just temporary to save the company from the Hush and Ra's. Well, mission accomplished. It's time for a Wayne to come back and take charge."

Bruce looks a little pissed now, "you _are_ a Wayne, Tim."

Dick's shoulders tighten, but Tim finally straightens and turns to look at Bruce, "No," he denies almost gently, "I'm not."

"You did changed your name," and Dick seems more upset about it than he should be (he thought Tam was saying it to get a rise...well, apparently not).

Tim just nods into his empty cup. He'd done it after…when the big call went out from the BI servers, calling anyone with a mask for the big bad preparations. Dami had told him he had no place there anymore, might as well meet them out in the city proper and _no one disagreed_. It had been fucking brutal, painful. The time he'd called out for help and no one had even…the beating had been pretty bad. Of course, he survived worse. He'd gotten out, he'd gotten himself safe, made sure he wasn't going to bleed out before he passed the fuck out, but the realization had been just as hard: there wouldn't be a safety net in Gotham anymore. He was on his own.

Something must be in his face because Hood is leaning over to look at him again, giving the critical eye.

"Baby Bird…" and his voice is low, rough.

Tim stands abruptly, dropping his small cup in the sink, "it's fine. Not a big deal. Paperwork's ready for the next person in line." Flippant works _because this is old shit that doesn't bother him anymore_.

"Fuck that, I wanna hear what you were thinking because it's very obviously _not fine_ if it makes you look like that." It's so just _Jason_ in that strange, makes-you-want-to-kick-him-in-the-dick kind of way he has, just making demands without considering the audience. Maybe giving into the Bats was a bad idea. Crazily enough, he kind of wishes Dami was back to act as a buffer (how fucked up is that?).

Instead, "Old story, Jay. That shit is already done. Point is, I dropped Wayne from my last name." Tim flops back down, rubbing his tired eyes and ignoring the angry furrow of Red Hood's forehead.

"You can talk about it, Tim," Bruce offers gently, "we're here to try and rebuild our relationship with you. Whenever needs to be said is okay."

Jason just gestures to Bruce with a _'see?'_ hand.

And as Tim looks over at the eldest Bats, he can see it right in front of his fucking face; they really _didn't know_ why. So he just turns his gaze away to the terribly uninteresting muted shade of his walls and crosses his arms over his chest in an unconscious attempt to protect himself from this.

"I did. I changed my name last year."

"Why, Tim?" And Jason. _Goddamned Jason_. Of any of them, he'd be the one that knows ( _"Why the fuck didn't you call the Bats?"_ ).

"Because after the third time I sent out a distress call and no one came, I got the point. When Dami said I shouldn't be in the Cave or the Manor because it wasn't my home, not my place to be there, and everyone let it slide, I got the point. I. Got. It, Jay. _It's fine_. I got my ass handed to me a few times, so what? I got kidnapped and tortured for a few weeks, so fucking what? The Titans handled the Insurgents, and we survived it. I signed up knowing bad shit was going to happen. We all do." He breathes in slowly, trying desperately to keep him eyes from getting heavy because it'd been a real shitty two years.

"I'm the Bat's Intel guy, the back-up, the goddamned soldier, and that's fine. Not a problem. Now whatever in the hell this is just blows the whole system." Now his hands are fists and he wants to break something, wants to punch until his knuckles bleed and the stitches rip out of his skin. "I adapted. I got used to it, and it was fine. This screwing around with it is…uncomfortable."

"It's not fine," Dick's voice but Tim won't even look because damn it, _that might set him off_. He's not that hot-head anymore. "Tim, little-"

And there it is, that gives him the backbone to turn and look at that asshole, cutting his right off in mid-sentence.

"Don't even call me that, Dick. I'm not your fucking brother. I'm the Stand-In between the real sons here. Now that _I get it_ , it's not a problem."

There it is. Thrown back into Dick's face how full of shit he is, but saying it still makes Tim's chest ache like he can't breathe; his voice is just factual, angry but to-the-point because he knows the truth from bullshit now, he knows how it's going to be. And well, that's fine too.

Only, Jason actually looks shocked, staring at him like he's going to be sick. Like he didn't fucking expect that answer when he came in through the window, but really, there's no other answer to give. Tim doesn't even address it because, well, the second Robin had been right all along. _Replacement? Not even that._

His wrists crack audibly from the strain. "Fuck. I need sleep." Tim stands abruptly, a fine tremor in his muscles. "I'm going to bed."

And fucking Jason. "Tim."

The younger just looks at him, waiting.

"You're still going to do this? The second chance thing the Bats are asking for?"

For a moment, Tim just stares, his face closed off. "I don't see a need for it, but if you want to waste your time making sure I'm not completely useless as a vigilante and call it 'bonding' to cover it up, then fine. I'll deal with it, too."

A muscle in Jason's jaw jumps, but the man just schools his features and nods, "guess we got our work cut out for us."

Tim's got nothing for that and moves away from the table.

Dick stands up and his face is miserable, his eyes are deep, dark blue, but Tim walks right around him like he doesn't even exist. The older man watches him go, silent and grave, a very _Dark Knight_ stance. Bruce's hand wraps around his forearm, gentle pressure until Dick is sitting again, staring down that hallway.

"We should go," Jason says quietly, standing to put his own mug in the sink. "That's all we'll get outta Baby Bird for the moment."

Bruce looks lost in his thoughts, weighed by his third son's trials and acceptance of being left behind. He's angry at himself for reading the signs all wrong, at Tim not fighting back to keep his place in the Bat ranks, at no one cluing him in on how far gone Tim was for them now. He has no one to blame but himself for the new scars his son bore, for the weight a nineteen year old boy shouldn't be carrying.

He should still be going to college, still living in the Manor and taking some nights off to do his homework. He should still be that smiling, joking young man with a girlfriend outside their secret lives and coming into the library to talk with him about cases he was trying to solve.

What he is, instead, is a lone vigilante taking care of a team in between being a CEO for a major company (a job he never asked for) and taking on his own duties as a crime fighter without anyone to catch him when he fell. He's an abandoned bird, broken wings healed with scars that go deeper than skin.

For an impossible moment, Bruce is worried he may be too far gone to come back. The broken trust between them may be too much for Tim to forgive, for Tim _to come back_. But, the real Bruce, the man once the cowl comes off, is a stubborn bastard. He's a man that doesn't give up.

After a moment, he stands fluidly, squeezing Dick's shoulder for a long moment before his oldest stands too. Bruce picks up the Red Hood helmet himself while his second son just ambles behind them, following them out Tim's front door and closing it behind them.

A few hours later, Tim is impeccably dressed for WE, getting to work on time even before Tam is at her desk outside his office. It's unusual for him, but the nonsense with the Bats made him too antsy to sleep, even after he heard them leave, so he ran his sims and decided to come to work instead. He needs to do something to make his chest stop this useless fucking aching because he already got used to how his life is now.

He gets his systems warmed up and goes to their private kitchen to make coffee, already going through his nice lack of schedule today. No meetings, no real paperwork, so he'd have time to go down to R&D and have some fun for once with the techs and engineers. His favorite part of the job (or the part he adapted) is to see the new products, throw in his two cents at the designs, point out the flaws, offer suggestions, and be with his real people.

These are the best days, so his mood lightens while checking the list of emails, printing ones he'll need to follow-up with and categorizing the others.

Tam, at some point, gets there and gives his door a cursory knock.

"Come in."

Her smile still does crazy things to him but she has better now, doesn't she?

"Wow, boss is early. Thought you were off in San Francisco for a few weeks." She teases, sipping out of her own mug.

He grins up at her, "change of plans. Besides, it's a play day."

"Ah. Going to be down in R&D all day, hm? I wish Dad could see how you are down there. I'd never get you two out."

"It would take something epic," he agrees solemnly, jacket already thrown over his chair and anticipating a day full of burying himself in creating, testing, being part of a team…

Tam waves him away, cup in hand, "all right! All right! Shoo!"

Tim's grin is huge as he vaults over his massive desk with style and heads to the door, walking backwards with his hands in his pockets, "don't wait up!"

She laughs at him again and shakes her head. Once he's down the elevator, Tam goes back to her desk and sighs, the conversation with Nightwing, Dick, is still a broken record in the back of her mind. Like her father, she loves the Wayne family, respects what they do, would do anything to help them and keep their secrets, but she shouldn't have told Dick anything, even if they were trying to be better to her ex-boyfriend boss, she shouldn't have helped them. They should have had to do it on their own.

She just gets to work and puts the rest out of her mind for the time being because at the end of the day, all she could do is be there for her friend, her old flame, and hope she wouldn't have to pick up more pieces of him. Or if she did, that he would let her.

The back elevators are for moments like these so Bruce can come into WE without all the fanfare he normally gets from the whole building; today, it's so Tim can't see him coming and have Tam deflect.

The elevator stops at the hidden room in Tim's office, the 'just in case' room. It has medical equipment, a bed, and a mini fridge, a few changes of clothes, and a small shower. Walking through it, Bruce wonders how many times Tim had needed this place in the past year since he felt the Manor and the Cave were no longer safe havens. How many times the middle son had stitched himself back together because he had no one else to depend on?

Since Dick's first visit to Tim's apartment weeks ago, his oldest son had admitted to Plan: Bring Tim Back to the Bats (or whatever in the hell Dick had called it), and Bruce was concerned about pushing too hard, pushing him further away…until Alfred started helpfully giving him hints (like with the Red Bird).

'Shall I change Master Timothy's things, Sir? He has not returned to the Manor is well over a year and I am certain he had outgrown the current clothing in his room.'

A year? More than?

Then to Barbara, Red Robin's comm records (the comm can't be traced? What if…?), but those dates couldn't be right. Had it really been that long since he called out? Bruce kept up with the research, logging into the JLA system to track the Titan's schedule and activity. Nothing to explain Tim's extended absences or lack of communication, cross-referencing the other's reports of his presence in Gotham.

Then he accessed all data on the Insurgent Crisis with two grainy pictures: one of Tim half buried in rubble beside Superboy and Kid Flash while the others dug them out and one of the whole bloodied team walking down the street for the final fight against the invaders (and that was his _son_ covered in his own blood and sneering with disdain). None of them had contacted the JLA at the time, and he assumed they had good reason. The signal, the fight, had been flagged too late for any of them to get to the battlefield in time to help, but they made it for the aftermath, taking in the ravaged but victorious teenagers.

The picture of Tim almost buried alive haunted him, reminiscent of Jason. The next day, he told Dick he was on board with the plan. Damian stood angrily at the admission, but Bruce had gotten the inside story to that situation.

"I have attempted to reach out to Drake," his youngest son had snarled at the two of them, "he will not return to the Manor on his own."

He and Dick had agreed to invade Tim's apartment sometime after patrol.

Here he is now, looking around the empty safe room, wondering how many times the bin had overflowed with bloody gauze, how many times he had gotten himself stitched up just enough to pass out and not bleed to death. How close he'd come to the edge of his sanity.

Too many things are clear now.

Bruce sighs and opens the hidden door into the office's restroom. Nothing blatantly Tim here either, just a generic room like the one in his own office a floor below.

Bruce opens the door, ready for his son to be at his desk, on the phone, reading or typing away. Nothing. The office is empty.

 _He could have taken the day, gone home to work a case or treat injuries._

Bruce strolls to the door and opens it to confront Tam (who, of course jumps in surprise).

"M-Mr. Wayne!"

"Tam. Good to see you," he doesn't bother with the Brucie persona because Tam knows better, knows the big secret anyway.

"Same to you, Sir."

"Where's Tim?"

"He's…"

"Don't deflect for him, Tam. I need to speak with my son."

There. She draws back a little and something that could be distaste flickers across her expression.

"Mr. Drake is down with R&D today, sir."

"Thank-you." He's already turning back into Tim's office. "And Tam?"

He doesn't turn, "the paperwork Tim mentioned. Transfer of Authority, the ones that will give the stocks and title back to me or another of my sons."

Her voice is oddly empty, "yes, sir?"

"I want it all shredded and put on Tim's desk. He wants to give up the job, then fine. Have them drawn up again if he decides to pursue other endeavors."

"Y-Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank-you, Tam."

He closes the door behind him as his phone buzzes.

"You're supposed to be off today," Bruce answers as he gets in the elevator.

"Doing research," his oldest son answers. "Alfred said you went to WE."

"I'm going to collect Tim. Lunch is a good start."

"Ah. Okay then, I'll be at the Manor at six. Dami has an…idea. Thought we should consider it."

"I'll be back by then. We'll talk before patrol."

"Okay. You'll want to hear this."

Now he's amused, "Damian always has…a different perspective. See you tonight."

He rides down the elevator to R&D, now curious to see Tim in action. He knows how well Tim has been leading WE into the future (he's seen the new direction into energy and technology) just by the profit reports, but he's rarely seen Tim outside the boardroom. This trip may give him new insight into the type of man Tim's become because any good detective knows that knowledge is the key to any case.

Of course, no one notices he's come out of the back elevator, and Bruce walks calmly along the far wall away from the workstations and testing areas. It really doesn't matter because the main body of employees are gathered around a mock engine closer to the front of the room.

"Sir!"

"Good here."

" _Sir-_ "

"Really, stop worrying about it, Mike." Tim's disembodied voice come from somewhere around the mock.

"But, _sir_ ," and the _please_ is there. Michael Danvers, Lucius' replacement in R &D, doesn't know what to do when the CEO wants to get his hands dirty apparently. Lucius hand-picked the man for his tech savvy, not his CEO wrangling.

"It's fine, Mike. I checked all the locks myself."

Bruce comes just close enough to hover on the outskirts and see Tim laying under the suspended engine block on his back through the tangle of legs and coveralls. He eyes the straps and locks himself; he can see Mike's point.

"All right!" Tim calls, "let's see it."

One of the techs moves and after a cough, the engine TIM IS CURRENTLY UNDER sputters to life. The initial start is rough but even Bruce can hear it leveling out, running evenly.

A few seconds of complete silence and everyone gathered starts the enthusiastic cheering of a real breakthrough. The techs are high fiving, slapping one another on the back, and one bends down to offer a hand to Tim and pull him to his feet.

From there, the techs are congratulating him, buzzing with excitement in what this could mean for the industry.

Tim holds up both hands for quiet (a socket wrench in one) and the idle soothing and quiet beside him, and Bruce finally sees _his son_ , suit dirty with dark substances on his pants and shirt, some on his cheek, and hands covered to the forearms. But, he's smiling. A genuine wide smile that reminds him of the young boy Tim used to be, the Robin that was once his partner, his son, his friend. The boy that was on his way to becoming a true detective.

"Okay everyone. This is extremely exciting, I know. You guys have worked so hard to make this a reality, and I appreciate all the effort and stress and strain each of you have put into this project. We still have work to do, a lot of work, before I can bring this to the board, but, I want each and every one of you to take tomorrow off and celebrate how far we've come! Now, it's just a matter of time."

The team cheers again while Tim laughs and the expression is just as genuine as the smile.

"That mean you too, boss?"

Tim just laughs again, "I think there's an expression somewhere about the devil's work never being done."

The team laughs again and give another round of back-slapping before Tim finally spots him standing in the back, and the genuine bleeds out of his face. The CEO mask is there, nothing that reaches his eyes, nothing that gives him away. _And this is the man Tim's become, one that can always hide, one that can lie_.

"Bruce! What a surprise."

And the team turns; the usual reactions, shock, awe, guilt, and envy as the last blooded Wayne comes for a visit.

"Tim! You forgot our luncheon, as usual." He's grinning that _Brucie_ smile. "It's a sad time when my own CEO forgets about me." He strides up, hands in the pockets of his ridiculously expensive suit, and has to give Tim credit when he doesn't even flicker an eye. The kid always had a good undercover face.

"Momentous breakthrough, Bruce. Business as usual at Wayne Enterprises."

Tim looks at the team, "your R&D department is going to put us ahead of the competition at this year's Expo."

"Oh? I would expect nothing less from the greatest minds in the business." The pleased flush from some of the team is enough to placate his middle son, who relaxes his stance just enough for Bruce to notice.

"All right everyone. That's a break for lunch so Mr. Wayne doesn't have to drag me kicking and screaming away." The general laughter makes _Brucie_ chuckle as Tim lays the socket down and strides toward him, greasy mess and all. "Good work today. Keep it up."

With a wave to the team of techs and engineers, Bruce walks side-by-side with Tim to the regular elevator, keeping up pretenses by Tim starting with, "So, the quarterlies are looking great, Bruce…"

Until the doors slide shut and they're on the way to Tim's office when the younger man falls silent staring ahead with that blank expression.

Bruce let him have his time.

Coming out of the elevator first, Tim puts on that CEO smile for Tam.

"Anything pressing, Tam?"

She smiles back but her eyes flicker to Bruce, "no, Mr. Drake. The paperwork Mr. Wayne requested is on your desk."

Not even a flicker in Tim. "That's why you're the best, Tam. I'm going to catch Bruce up, so hold my calls please."

"Absolutely, sir."

Tim holds the door to his office open, allows Bruce to stroll through first.

Tim doesn't breathe until the door is closed behind them. The younger man's deceptive posture is loose, calm, but Bruce knows better just by watching the random twitches in his biceps and thighs (ones that keep him on his toes for the next move in a fight).

"What do you need?" Rote.

Dropping the pretenses, the older man strides to the hidden room and opens the door without a word, standing back. Tim's eyes narrow in silent assessment, seeming as though he intended to wait his old mentor out, but Bruce is nothing if not patient.

Finally, Tim walks through on his own steam, standing by the simple chrome counter with arms crossed over his chest. He's giving Bruce the blank expression, and the volume of things left between them in that speech this morning looms in the forefront of Bruce's mind. It's time to break Tim's reconditioned responses, to reject comfort and care.

The older man doesn't hesitate to invade his personal space without a hitch, two fingers reach out unerringly to press gently against the gauze pad still taped to his side. Every muscle in Tim's body tightens (and _fucking Dick_ ) because some kind of reprimand is coming.

"Let me see it," Bruce says instead, walking away to go for the cabinets, looking through them for the supplies he wants. He takes off his expensive jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves.

"Not necessary," the exact same words, the same tone from Red Robin.

"You're still going out with Damian tonight?"

"As planned,"

"Then it's necessary."

And fuck, it's the 'there will be no argument because I will win' Batman. Tim's seen the effect of fighting against it, knows he could probably force the issue if he wants to just remind his former mentor that _he's not Bruce's responsibility_. But, the thought comes unbidden, if he's going out with Dami tonight as promised, Bruce might want to check that he's as close to 100% as possible.

 _As long as he doesn't see…_ Tim hesitates a second before pulling his shirt out of his pants and starts on the buttons. Bruce comes back with supplies while Tim holds his dress shirt out of the way and pulls up his tank top underneath, showing just the gauze pad at his side.

Bruce doesn't comment, just snaps on gloves, kneeling down to gingerly pull the tape off and reveal the stitches.

With this, his mentor checking him over after so long, Tim can't force himself to relax because he's not that Robin anymore.

Finally, however, he does start with, "you're waiting for something, Tim. My theory is your waiting for some kind of talk or lecture, but I don't have any idea what you're expecting. You've done nothing wrong." Bruce glances up, noting Tim's not even looking at him. "It disturbs me, the fact you don't have very different expectations now."

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat.

"I mean to say that you have none except for some type of punishment. You're 19 now. A grown vigilante with your own team that's done a lot of good. I can't ground you anymore, but I can be concerned for you. Just like I am with Dick and Jason." Bruce smears some healing concoction he probably got from Alfred over the row of black thread before re-taping a fresh pad over it.

"You can believe what you want about this." Bruce's voice is softer now, "but I'm going to tell you this once since you have always been a 'seeing is believing' type—we only want to prove ourselves to you. Dick wants to make up for his inattention, Jason probably wants to correct his previous behaviors, Damian, I'm sure, wants the same."

Taking this in, staring at the blank wall, Tim sighs, "and you?"

"…I want my son back."

That startles him, draws Tim's eyes down, Bruce kneeling by his side, looking up with sincerity.

"I've been working to get my children back for too long. Jason, Dick, Damian. Now, it's your turn, Tim. You've grown up into this fierce, powerful young man that I don't know. You're not the same teenager that started as my Robin, the other half of Batman with the mind of a budding detective. You _are_ a detective now, and I missed too much of that process. I missed all the training you've done with other masters, I've missed bandaging you up when you're injured, I've missed helping you on cases, on getting your opinion on mine. I've missed you falling asleep in the library, on watching you eat like you could for days. There's too much of a gap." And it's like Bruce is saying the thing Tim would never admit, _I grew up while you were busy with other things_.

He blinks down at Bruce, at a loss, just watching his former mentor slowly straighten to his full height.

"It's purely selfish, Tim, but I want a place in your life again."

Just like he's still a kid, Bruce buttons his shirt back up ( _there's something_ _he doesn't want me seeing_ ), straightens his collar and lets his big palms lie on Tim's broad shoulders.

"For right now, I want you to go out to lunch with me, maybe make small talk about something other than work. Eventually, I want you to be able to trust me, so you can depend on me when you need to, but more, when you _want_ to."

Tim blinks again and turns away, mind working at what other forces may be at work behind this. It takes a few long moments for him to decide, time which Bruce throws away the old pad, washes his hands, does little things to keep himself busy and give Tim the time he needs.

"Godfelty's," the younger man finally breaks the quiet. "A few blocks away. They have good subs."

Still turned to the sink, a small smile cuts over Bruce Wayne's face before he schools himself in neutral lines. "Subs it is."

Tim steps up and scrubs at the engine grease and oil, silent as he goes to the closet in the back, flips on the light, and closes the door to change into a clean shirt and pants. When he emerges, Bruce slides his coat on and follows his son through the door, waiting ever patient for Tim to grab his necessities out of his desk drawer. And just stares at the impressive pile of confetti on the top.

Tim blinks down at it, catching words phrases, names, knows exactly what he's looking at. Slowly, his head turns to give Bruce the full weight of his gaze.

The elder simply smiles back while adjusting his sleeves.

Tim closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Without a word, he slides on his coat and starts out the door.

Bruce counts it as a win.

A/N: Feel free to leave me comments and whatnot. If you'd like to check out the story in full: /works/5156417/chapters/12183344 under Wintersnight. You can find my Avengers thing and the Distractions pile there as well.

Thanks for reading


	8. Chapter 8: Drabbles

During his time as a lone vigilante:

Tim got a present from Ra's on his birthday. It was a book bound in human skin. Fluctuating between _ew, I should be wearing gloves_ , _is this someone I knew?_ , _wow, this is pretty well preserved_ , and _is this some crazy kind of League of Assassin's cookbook?_ , Tim has never opened it. He's pretty sure it's supposed to be some kind of epic riddle or something because Ra's, but it's still sitting on his shelf in the perch, unopened.

Unknown to anyone on the Titan's team, he pierced the top cartilage of his right ear with two small hoops in remembrance of Z and Owen. He camouflages them with the usual undercover techniques but has never taken them out.

Tim snuck into Ra's main compound to search for baby pictures of Damian. There are only four. Once of them shows the demon brat drools when he sleeps.

He names his concussions to make it seem like they're _really not a big deal_.  
"I hung out with Sam last night and that dude just sucks. Seriously, he's terrible."  
Cassie is never amused.

Tim flies out to see Cassandra at least once every few months (or she comes in to San Fran and hangs out in the Tower) because they have a great working relationship. Every time they spar, however, it's the closest call she's had besides her father.

After four days of consistent nightmares, Tim finally gave in and went to a bar in San Fran to drink a few. He ended up in a bar fight, got arrested (as Alvin Draper who is over 21), and still didn't get to finish his first beer. His mug shot is hanging on the fridge in Titan's Tower.

The Titans have a strategic "How to Keep Red Alive" Standard Operating Procedure drafted in secret meetings via Skype. Step 1 is _never believe Red when he says, "Sure it'll work, just watch, and duck when appropriate."_

Tim cross references bad nights in Gotham to make sure he'll be in town when one of the vigilantes may be out of commission; he plans them so no one will try coming to visit.

Ra's ninja squad now knows to never play Texas Hold 'Em with Red Robin. That motherfucker cheats. His collection of won weaponry is getting too big for one floor.

For a span of four months, Tim took part in an underground fighting competition. They asked him not to come back.

Raven, Kon, Bart, and Cassie (via the Insurgent mind trap) are the only ones that know the extent of the damage done to Tim while he was in captivity; Tim's default answer to any questions concerning those two week is he "doesn't talk about it."

Steph (still feeling like ass about Tim mourning her death) texts Tim often with random things just to have an excuse to know he's still alive. Usually it's just phrases and random facts that pop in her head when she's punch-drunk because of blood loss.

Bruce has tried to get Tim to come to the Manor dozens of times in the last two years (using a plethora of excuses, from Alfred's cooking to cases he "needs help with")—he keeps buying his son's terrible excuses because he's afraid of pushing Tim further away.

Tim's civilian "day" car is a beat-up Honda Civic, because, you know, reasons.

When the Clock Tower blew up that one time, Tim is the one that gave Barbara and the Birds of Prey his renovated theatre to use until their new perch was rebuilt. He had it set-up with wheelchair accessibility, security, and all the extras the crew would need.

Once the girls decided they really liked the old theatre, he just gave it to them. When Babs asked him why, Tim just shrugged and replied, "what would I do with all this space anyway? It's just me."

Dick had to break down and ask for Tim's help with the Bat Computer because really, how did Bruce get so many Trojans? Tim was able to remote in, fix the system, and set a picture of Batman smacking the shit out of a very young Robin (take that, Dick) as the background and locked it.

Damian laughed for days. Bruce and Dick were not amused. They take better care with McAfee updates.  
**


	9. Chapter 9: The List

_Three Months ago_

"Red."

Color him surprised.

"Robin," in the Titan's Tower, Red Robin sits back in his chair, listening to the newest Robin's voice come over the speakers. "What do you need?"

The youngest Bat hesitates, "Batman is off world on League business and Nightwing is accompanying him. For this case, I am in need of a detective."

 _You call, I'll come_.

"Tell me what you need me to do, Robin." But, like he already knows, he's standing out of his chair, command given to shut the system down. He's moving to the closet, pulling the domino off to become Tim Drake.

"Come to Gotham, Red. For this, I cannot work over a distance."

"Understood," he's already changing into jeans, t-shirt, hoodie. He's got a suit in Gotham, he's got other toys to stock his harness. He's got what he needs. "Five hours, Robin."

"What magic are you utilizing?" There's the suspicion.

"None. I have the old Batplane here. I'll break Mach I in no time. Meet me at my perch before dark, bring whatever you've got."

"I shall…Red?"

"Yeah?"

And because Dami is still a little shit sometime, he's grudgingly nice,"…Thank-you for this."

"Told you. Call and I'll come. See you tonight, Robin. Red, out."

The safe house (off BI's list) is outside city limits, constructed just for the plane. Tim's spare bike is there for the ride back into Gotham. Luckily, this one is a 'day' model without a hint of insignia. He stops on his way to the apartment perch to get doughnuts with no intention of really eating them. As he expected, Robin was waiting on his counter with a fresh pot of coffee already made ( _why would he do that?_ ).

Tim wasted no time, dropping his backpack and duffle by the door and the baker's box on the kitchen table. He didn't bother removing his hood, but just moved to get a clean mug.

"You will not be any help, Drake," the little bastard sneers with a glare. At almost fourteen, Damian is still an annoying pain in the ass, but, hey, what could you do?

"If that's so, why did you call me?" Tim replies calmly.

"As I have already said, I need a detective. You, however, are ready to pass out where you stand."

"I'm good," digging in the fridge for creamer, Tim doesn't even give him a glance, "I haven't almost died in two weeks. No problem."

"Oh?" A brow arches over the green domino, "the news coverage of your foolish _team_ states otherwise."

Tim blinks very slowly, hand on the cold bottle of Italian Sweet Cream, _naw, there's no way—_

"Saw that, did you?" He keeps his tone deceptively dismissive. "Just another try by N.O.W.H.E.R.E, we got 'em. End of the day, we won."

"You took a direct hit intended for that fool clone," Robin sneers, "you did not even _attempt_ to dodge, Drake. Sloppy of you."

Another slow blink behind the shield of his hood while he pours the creamer in, "It was part of the plan. The strike gave them false security that I was out of the fight when I had time to activate the EMP and take out all their hardware. It was just a ploy, Dami."

"It was _stupid_."

"It was a perfect plan. I added extra padding and sensors to the suit before we even left." Tim turns to face him finally, "all right, kid. What's all this about?"

And the green domino comes off so Tim can be fully aware Dami is glaring at him, the _Batman_ glare, "For you to be _any_ help to me, I need you at one-hundred percent performance, Drake. And you," a gloved hand waves to encompass Tim from head to toe, "are obviously sleep deprived, more than likely malnourished, and have been in a heavy battle within the last forty-eight hours."

 _Okay, mostly true_.

Dami jumps down from the counter, "you will sleep a full eight hours, eat, and then I may be persuaded to let you assist me with this perturbing string of thefts. Until then, you are _waste_ of my time."

Instead of that old irritation welling up, Tim cocks a brow at him while sipping on his coffee because _seriously, this was kind of creeping him out_. "Okay," Tim draws out, "you want me to eat, sleep, and then play detective for you. Got it. Anything else?"

The kid just hops off his counter and strides to the open window before fitting his domino back in place. "Yes," Robin hisses as he climbs on the sill, "make better _plans_."

Then he's off, leaving Tim to stare. The peanut butter doughnuts are already gone.

 _Now_

 _Earlier in the night:_

Damian is really a genius. That or he knows Tim too well by now.

"This is not something I was able to do before," the youngest asserts, answering Jason's question. "For this to work, the whole Bat family would need to be in on it."

"You could have clued us in on how bad it'd gotten, Baby Bat," Dick replies sorely.

But Damian isn't even moved, just crosses his arms over his chest, "what lesson would you have learned, Grayson? None. Had I or Todd tried to make you see before you were ready, given you the answers, this would happen again. Drake, while he may be an egotistical nightmare, does not deserve to be lost a second time."

Dick's got nothing for that.

"Not fair to Baby Bird," Jason points a finger at the brat. "That kid is probably as humble as they come."

"Tt- he is _now_." The kid snarks.

"You're more of a pain in the ass than him." Jay just grins and makes kissy noises.

After _months_ of being integrated into Hood's strange demeanor, Dami isn't even shaken. "I am exposed to your blatant idiocy on a _more consistent basis than Drake_. Of course I am more peevish."

"Back to the point, demon child." And Jay's eyes are still twinkling in mirth, "He saved our asses."

"More than once," The brat agrees, still standing beside his point. "The issue here, is what assurances he will need for the future. How can he be certain this will not happen yet again? What guarantees can the Bats give that will appease Red Robin?"

"Proof." The three look at Bruce sitting by his own workbench, still in jeans and a tattered T-shirt. "That's the way Tim's always been. He takes action and concrete evidence over words."

Dick just nods, "then we start with new protocols." He starts slowly. "BI was Tim's baby from the start, but there were only general rules set in place, hot spots for when the night might go bad, communications of the big bad is a bigger bad than one person can handle. There's very little on the books after that." Dick starts pacing, working off his nervous energy, "we apply them to the group, not just the family. For Tim, we get more personal."

Bruce chuffs a laugh, "like you don't already have Rachel and Garth as your spies."

Dick pauses, both hands in the air, "you know better than that, B. I might be able to get _some_ details out of Rave and BB, but they're loyal to Tim. He's seen them through some terrible shit, and I'm glad they have his back." Because that meant Tim had _someone_ to catch him.

Jay, still screwing with the security system panel in his helmet just makes a noise in the back of his throat. "We start out with checks on, Baby Bird. Weekly, get updates on his stats. Once he starts getting his feet more in Gotham than out of it, we assign him a shift on someone else, Big Wing or the kid. Then we work him back into time at the Manor, weapons upgrade, meetings on the new faces, the new tech on the streets. We make him take charge of one of 'em. He'll respond out of duty, but we work it differently later on."

The other three Bats are just _staring_ , but he's not even looking up because he's just thinking out loud more than anything (still strange to be in the Manor a few nights every couple of weeks, still so odd to have a single location to go back to at the end of the night. His room…his _fucking_ room is still there, bigger bed, clothes that fit him today, more tech for his weapons. Shit, he hadn't expected…). He's had time to study his Replacement, knew how the guy ticked. He and the kid had a shit ton of issues with the Bats in common, so he got it, he really did. Once he realized Bruce had replaced him as Robin—without knowing how close B was to the edge of sanity—he'd understood betrayal in an ape-shit crazy kind of way, responded in kind.

Now that the Pit wore down in him, that he could be reasoned with and reason with that endless well of crazy inside him, he could let himself start falling back with this bunch of assholes. He finally straightens, working the sore muscles in his neck, turning on his stool to put the workbench at his back and lean his elbows on it.

"So, demon kid's plan is a solid place to start. We just working the angle from there." His hand gestures to the old, leather bound tome on the edge of his own workbench where the kid had finally put it down. Sure, it creeped him out to see one outside Ra's library (where he'd spent some time while training with Talia) and knew the backstory on the older-than-shit tradition.

Dami sighs and looks at the book as well, one that had been through his time with the League of Assassins that could not be unlocked by anyone but him (even Bruce probably tried one time or another) and been carried into his current life; this, this a thing he could not give up.

He admitted to the habit with a quiet dignity. "This will be one way to exploit his weakness following a non-lethal tradition of the League of Assassins. This book has ever lesson, every skill I have ever been taught, even those in which I did not excel. Grandfather, Mother, Father, even to you, Todd, and Grayson. Brown and Cain. Drake has the least pages."

"I'm sure I don't want to really know this," Dick starts, "but why-?" and that statement could encompass _why keep it after everything you've done to leave the League behind_ to _why bother to record the Bats in it, Baby Bird?_

"Knowledge is power, Grayson." Dami turns those eyes on his mentor and feels that helpless stab of… _affection_ for the older man, his Batman. Of course, Father would always be the pinnacle he hoped to one day achieve, but Grayson is one he could approach without caution. He could tell Grayson anything.

"Every great ruler or conqueror succeeded in his aspirations because of the right knowledge in his possession. Drake, like my Grandfather, has a similar mind set. It is his weakness, one I would be able to exploit. If I call, he will come, but will then leave at the earliest opportunity." The youngest shrugs. "He has created reasons to leave Gotham with more frequency; we have been able to discern Drake remains in the Tower while his team returns to their other lives and thus he does not have consistent justification to be out of the city. As Pennyworth has already told me, we shall give him the proper motivation to return. This request will assure he stays for longer periods until the pages are properly full."

"So," Dick readjusts his lean, "you've got every teacher in there?"

"Yes. Not just teachers, Grayson, every lesson that would improve upon my skill," Damian's hand skims over the cover, "as the Demon Head has libraries devotes to his accumulated knowledge, I have begun with this one. In my attempt to be an exceptional Robin, the chapters contains lessons learned from the moment I could properly recall. Yes, much of it is knowledge from the League of Assassins; however, several sections are devoted to what I have gained from you, Father, and Todd. Drake has the least entries with a great deal to offer."

Jason gives a little hum, "that's a pretty solid plan, Baby Bat."

Dami smirks and bows a little, "I am aware, Todd. I will propose this to Drake this evening and report back."

 _Now_

Lunch was strange, Bruce not acting like Batman or Brucie, but just, well, Bruce. He'd been content to let his old mentor do most the talking, answering questions when he may have been silent too long.

(" _I'm working on a pet project, having some issues with re-configuring a mother board in one of the cars. Maybe you could lend a hand once I'm further along with it."_

 _"Whatever you need."_

 _"Hm. R &D, huh. Always knew you had an affinity for tech, what else are you working on?"_

 _"…a tracking system. Something—something I'm toying with.")_

Now he's at the top of WKKY ( _all_ Gotham _all_ the time), a smaller throwing disc rolling over his fingers while he waits, crouching down in the shadows. Any other night, any other time, he'd already be flying, taking the first leap like it's his last. He's had time to get used to it, to _like_ it ( _liar_ ), to hold his breath in and let the air hit him just right. He's better on his own, a better fighter, a better detective, a better vigilante, a better leader; he hadn't realized it until all of it just came to be. The safety net had, in some ways, hindered him, just like Ra's once said when he had pretty much taken over the League and coordinated their efforts against the Council of Spiders. Until then, he hadn't really known his limits, of what he could do. He'd been forced to find out the hard way.

Part of him has reservations because the Bats, in many ways, made him weak (just like Ra's always said); the other part was tired to trying to be the thing other people needed (because hadn't Batman needed a Robin?). He'd done it from the start, coming into the Robin legacy because Batman needed something, someone to keep him from stepping over the line. From there on, he'd kept moving with a single-minded determination to make sure the mission, the Batman, kept moving forward. Even through the death of his mom, the murder of his dad, he'd taken some measure of comfort that he was still working for the end result, for the betterment, for the mission. It didn't ease his guilt that _he hadn't been there_ to save them, but it gave him something to hold on to. That eradicating crime, saving Batman from the final darkness, the abyss, was worth all the pain, all the injuries, all the _fucked-up_ he'd lived through until Bruce had vanished.

His justifications ended the moment Dick thought he should see a shrink, that Dick stopped believing in him as _Tim_ and started looking at him out of the peripheral (like waiting for the proverbial knife in the back). His perceptions had to change when he took up the cowl from Jason (and that little shit, the General) because he _knew_ he would have to do things, be things Robin could never hack. It was the first time he had to compromise Bruce's ethics, _his_ ethics, to be what someone else needed; all of it was still part of the fight to be what Batman needed.

From there, the spiral started.

The net vanished.

He couldn't just come back.

He became something the Bats couldn't forgive.

He realized he never should have taken Robin in the first place.

The soft noise would be imperceptible to most, but he just breathes _(can I do this? Is this real_?).

"I cannot leave those three alone for _ten minutes_ and expect them to act with any reasonable sense," Robin sneers in his usually bull-in-a-China-shop attitude outside of a fight. The teenager puts himself a scant foot in front of Red Robin, tilting to look up enough that he could see Red's face. " _What did they_ _say to you after I left_?"

Again, he has to be what someone else needs (but he doesn't miss _those three_ because Hood is officially back in the family, at least in the kid's mind so also in B's, and that's a good thing; he's absurdly happy about it).

"Am I here?"

"Well, obviously!" That sneer isn't really for him, and now he knows the difference.

"Then it doesn't matter what they said. I'm standing right here, Robin."

"I am _aware_ of your current location, Red, but it does not excuse—"

"It's fine." Red holds up a hand, "not something to worry about."

"I believe our conversation last night proves that to be a fallacy," Robin isn't letting up, his fists clenching by his sides, working out some imagined slight. Yeah, he had figured the kid out all wrong and that image from earlier this morning, about what the inside of this Robin might consist of, still makes the protective instincts in him rise to the fore.

Red sighs, arms crossing over his harness, "they just wanted to know why I changed my name, that's it."

Robin's eyebrow lifts into his hairline, "…this is it? They acted as though they were coming back from a death march."

Red shrugs a shoulder, "I think we can agree—they're assholes."

Robin just sighs like the world if full of fools he has to suffer, "Crude, but accurate. I honestly marvel that any of you could deal with Nightwing for more than a few hours without giving in to the compulsion to throw him off a building."

Red starts moving to the east side of the building, pulling his grapple out on the way; Robin paces beside him. The grin he's sporting flashes white in the night, "You're not fooling anyone, kid. Nightwing means a lot to you, too." Because, really, kid. _No one's buying what you're selling._

"He was your Batman, and a Robin should be connected to his Batman. Totally natural, you know? He probably feels the same way."

Robin's face takes a scary twist (because Red is absolutely right)"-Tt- as if. He's is merely Father's first son and thus would be overly _upset_ should I kill him."

Red tilts his head down and graciously lets the kid deflect like a motherfucker (because didn't they _all_? It's like a family superpower or something), "you know. For people that don't know you, your brand of humor is kinda creepy."

Robin smirks this time, teeth bare in a semblance of a snarl, "and what gave you the impression I am jesting, Red?"

Two grapples shot into the night and the Robins take flight.

Over comms, the two take their time to talk between the multitude of shit going down in the city (Red hacked Robin's comm four fights ago so they could talk without O or the Bats listening in).

"I assume you are not ready to tell me the truth," Robin sounds a little nasally, like that punch got him too close to the nose.

"Nothing to tell," Red arches himself up harder and the muscle in his right thigh twinges.

"Red," and the warning is there. "Hood has been living sporadically at the Manor for months now. I am aware of his…mannerisms. Nightwing is like a book. Whatever was said in my absence was _damaging_ for both of them. Nightwing I would expect as he genuinely cares for you; Hood, however…I did not expect him to be so obviously distrubed." Said with distaste, like the brat didn't clench the back of his shirt like he was going to vanish.

Red sighs through his nose in free fall, the grapple releasing and winding back as he lands and the silent fall of Robin beside him a few seconds behind because _longer legs_ until the little shit outgrows him (which will probably happen, dammit). He faces the kid, hands on his hips and the shadows eating up their figures, the kid's head tilts up to give him full attention.

"Robin…"

And, damn that kid, his voice goes a little softer, just enough to notice. "Timothy, you have never treated me like a child. Do not start now. Tell me."

And fuck, he's itching to remove the cowl so he can look at _Dami_ without the mask because this shit just sucks. "I told them why I don't come to the Manor or the Cave," he keeps his voice low, "I told them why I dropped Wayne from my name. I told them that I got it, that I _understood_ it all now and it's fucking _fine_ , okay? I'm not one of the real sons and maybe I never should have taken on the R. Maybe I should have found another way, but at the time, there _was_ no other way for me, you know? I'm the one that chose it, that came in _with my eyes wide open_ to what was going to happen. B and Nightwing and Hood all got thrown into this life because of the turning wheels of fate or what the fuck ever, but I'm the one that picked it for myself. I've got no one to blame but _me_."

And Robin just straightens, "ah. And is this why you told him not to call you 'brother'?"

Yeah, he said that, didn't he? "Nope. I told not to call me that because I'm not. My _brother_ wouldn't have…" his back teeth grind and he stops to take another breath.

"He betrayed your trust," Robin replies reasonably, "none of it was ever settled, even with the return of the original Batman and his return to Nightwing. You were his Robin for a time when Father was injured, and as you said _a Robin should be connected to his Batman_. He left you to fly or fall."

"It doesn't _matter_ -"

"It does to him. It does if the family is to attempt…making this," and a gauntleted hand waves between the two of them, "the way it should be."

After a moment of quiet in which there were no sirens, no screams, only the city working through the night, Red gives just enough to let his tight muscles uncoil from that powerful _deadly_. "It should have gone to you, from Hood to you. I get that now."

"-tt- for one of the more intelligent Robins, your ability to sprout utter idiocy is truly astounding. Remind me how you are capable or caring for a team without tripping over your shoelaces?"

Red chuff a laugh out of nowhere, shaking his head slightly. "C'mon you little demon. I do all right."

"After we are finished for the night," Robin cuts in, "take an hour, perhaps more, to consider the lack of your presence during your Robin tenure. Imagine what would have befallen Father, Nightwing, Hood, A, Oracle, Black Bat, that idiot Batgirl, and Gotham itself had you never wore this," and the kid taps his R with a finger. "Once you have contemplated this occurrence, call me. We will discuss this further. This may provide insight on your detective capabilities."

Red just tilts his head (a very _Tim_ action). He almost has another word out when screams split the night and both Robins jerk, move at the same moment, turning with capes fluttering, grapples extended, preparing for flight and fight.

Like a good father, Batman is there to pick up his Robin at the end of a grueling patrol, one that will have a fair share of bruises and aches and stitches. As they've been doing the last few months, the two Robins fell into an easy agreement, still in the stages of learning how to fight with one another (easier for Robin than Red since he usually has a consistent partner), and tonight gave them a step forward in the attempts.

Red lands first (again, longer legs for the moment) and his thigh muscle gives another twinge of pain from the steel pipe that met it earlier, but he wraps himself in his cape as Robin lands heavily beside him. The kid rolls his shoulder a bit and gives the Batman some signal in their silent language that keep the Dark Knight from approaching.

Instead, Robin is looking up at him, white lenses up so his eyes are even greener in the night.

"This went well," the current sidekick waves a hand between them.

"Agreed."

"Then you will give me the time I need to complete my chapters on you, Red Robin?"

While Red has had enough interactions to be fully aware of the Demon Head's library (and the prospect of adding to the heir's own memoir a little flattering), he sees where this may be going.

"Already told you I don't mind when I'm in Gotham," the older vigilante replies, "I'm still fuzzy on the part that you want to learn detective skills from me when you've got the World's Greatest a few floor down," Red waves a hand at the Batman without looking up, "but I'll do what I can."

"-tt- please, Red. We both know that you and the Batman are worlds apart as Detectives, and this is what I am looking to learn."

Of course, Robin can't see the eyebrow raise Red is giving him (seriously, like he doesn't know a ploy when he hears one, honestly, Dami), but, he already said he'd give them two things: time and opportunity, so if the kid wants to go this _here's a fake reason I need you to come chill_ , then Red would just let him run with it. Well, that and he's kind of intrigued on the whole idea of the League of Assassin playbook thing; he'd already got the kid to agree to let him see it sometime.

"I'll do what I can," he says instead, "on another note. The next one…Hood. I'll take Hood next."

The kid goes silent because regardless of what comes out of his mouth, he's got that deep connection with Nightwing and the implication of _I don't want that guy at my back_ is right there between them. The kid allows Red the courtesy of not having to say it in front of the Batman, "I will inform the Bats of the order. Perhaps when you are prepared to patrol with…the _others_ on the team, you will let me know."

"Sounds good."

Robin gives his version of a smile in the form of a smirk and turns to approach the Batman, feeling as though he has been able to accomplish something. A single step in a road.


	10. Chapter 10: Replacement

_Eight months ago_

The Red Hood is standing on the balcony of his safe house, smoking in the rain. He's only wearing sweats when his phone starts ringing. Since it's been a good night, and he thinks it might be one of his contacts, he answers.

"Hood." Nada. "Yello?"

"This… this is Superboy."

Jason's heart picks up immediately. "You found him."

The voice on the other end is strained, and Jason has a moment, a thrill of fear, an automatic panic that races up his spine. "Give it to me straight, kid."

"He's alive, functioning. Physically, he'll be okay. Otherwise, he's…different."

"Fuck. Two _weeks_. You'd be different, too."

"Well, not all of us have epic _Bat-tech_ for person location or a group of adults that just believe and **help out** us when one of our own is missing." And the meta sounds a little more bitter than Jason would have thought him capable.

Movement inside the safe house draws his eyes, and through the shadows, he sees the bedroom door open. Dick, completely nude with scars on display and every muscle moving in a beautiful sync, wanders barefoot into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and takes out a bottle of water. Those cerulean blue eyes take in the shadows, seek Jason out, and find him through the glass door.

Jason gives him a wave to go back to bed, their own secret language that he would be back in soon. Dick cracks open the bottle and gives a suggestive shimmy of his hips as he walks back through the door. He pauses in the moonlight just long enough for Jason to see the muscles of his back and ass highlighted, his share of scars marring that perfect skin. All of it just a reminder that each of them have their own breaking points.

Maybe that's why he started coming back to the Bats, Tim may have started the process with his pain-in-the-ass tendency of the save and grab, but here with Dick, he has something more intimate, more grounding. He has a connection to his old life, and even a way to integrate his new one. It was finally time for him to start moving.

"…tortured." The clone's voice brings him back to the present, away from the svelte body going back to his bed.

"Baby Bird…" Jason lets out a breath.

"Yeah," and the clone sounds fucked, voice thick with tears. "Yeah. He's moving, says he's fine, he's dealing with it."

"He's a Bat. That's what we'd all say," but Jason still has the inclination to hop on his bike and start the drive.

No. He'd still been trying to kill his replacement not too long ago, had only recently started seeing the patterns of whatever Tim was trying to pull, showing up with the grab and save just _fucking because_. He'd be the last person Tim would want right now, hell any of the Bats would be the last thing he needed.

"Don't tell the others. He'll do it himself when he's ready. _Please_ Jason. I'm not sure what he'll do. Hell, right now I'm not sure what he's going to do in the next ten minutes."

Jason is nodding, inhaling the last hit. "I got it, kid. Do me a favor and text me when he breaks from San Fran to come back to Gotham."

"No promises."

Jason barks a laugh. "Pain in the ass." Then quietly, "glad you let me know."

Kon sighs over the line, "I shouldn't because he's not part of the group anymore but you asked me to, so you know."

"Yeah. Thanks, kid. Keep an eye out."

"Will do."

Jason finally opens the sliding door and runs a hand down his face, considering what he should do before crossing the room and going back to bed.

Dick is sprawled on his side, still awake and still beautifully naked. Those eyes watch him strip back down, set his phone on the bedside table, and crawl under the covers.

Dick opens his arms without hesitating and Jason easily slides against him, pillowing himself against the Bat's cuddle buddy.

"Business?"

And here is the thing he will regret like fuck later, "yeah. Working one that ain't what it seems. Still gathering Intel."

Dick hums, arms already folding around Jason, fingertips mapping out the curve of muscle, the indent of scars, the fine and sensitive skin of throat and collar bone.

"You could talk to him about it if you're ready, you know."

And there it is, the elephant in the room. B.

"…I don't know, Big Wing." And he sighs, letting his body sink further against Dick's. "I know he's waiting, but I just need…"

"More time," and Dick gets it, still keeping up with the soothing motions. "I'm not trying to rush, just reminding you he's there."

And Jason stares at Dick through the darkness, eyes adjusted and his fingertips mapping the cut off the older man's cheekbone. He is better now, right?

Maybe, maybe soon…

 _Nine months later_

He's got the dom on over his eyes, helmet on the roof next to him because he's all about a cig before the kid shows up. One foot is braced on the edge so he can rest a forearm on the knee while the other leg dangles off the ledge, and the cig is a good one, hitting the right places that he needs it to so his head isn't as fucked as it should be about this. But dammit, he keeps going back to that night, to the string of _coulda, shoulda, woulda_ falling in rapid succession when it comes to that kid. Jason is pretty tight with how his life is now, more than the first time around when he was just a snot-nosed little shit in green panties; he's got people at his back, Dick and B, Roy and Kori, Tim and the Brat. Hell, he even some of the old school Titans have showed up along the way. So, yeah. Jason Todd is pretty tight now a days (he keeps one clip of the real thing along the small of his back at all times, rubber caps in the guns), and while it makes him this stupid side of content, he's waiting for the next thing, the next _big bad_ because there would always be one, wouldn't there?

As is, he takes him time, letting himself look down on one of the bad parts of Gotham that's become _his_ territory. One of those yawning black holes in the city where criminals don't try funny shit. It's a good thing: don't fuck with the Hood's turf, and the Hood won't break your fucking face. Fair is fair.

"You good with this?"

The voice actually startles him, the cigarette falling from his hand because he has the .45 Glock in hand to swing around and hit the shadow with the laser site.

 _Fuck_.

"Baby Bird, sorry," and holding that piece on the kid bring back a whole lot of ' _you're dead,' 'you'll never be me,' 'he let me fucking die and then put **another** kid in harm's way_.'

Red had a disc out, already moved to the shelter of an overhang because he was pretty fucking smart to remember why he's got too many scars that aren't from any bad guys on the Bat list.

Free hand in the air, Hood eases the gun back in his holster then raises them both up. "I didn't hear you at all, Red. Not lying."

It takes a few spans of a heartbeat, longer than it would with anyone else that knew him, before Red Robin straightens out of the shadows and fits the disc away. Hoods eyes pick out other shadowed movements, a discreet tap to a spot on the harness where some other trick or gadget is sure to have existed. Another move to the utility belt around his waist (not knock out pellets, what the hell is that?) and the glint off the retractable bo in the moonlight just remind him that regardless, this is the kid with the plan.

The guy finally steps out, "I'll be louder next time." And Red had a moment there where he thought it was all going to spiral back down the rabbit hole of the Replacement time period in his career, when he'd let Jason Todd use him as a personal therapy punching bag (complete with knives and bullets along with fists). He had a thrill of fear that the Pit was going to override months of hard work; that maybe he'd overestimated how amicable they'd become.

"Asshole. The point is not to be heard," Hood just stands with his hands on his hips and a smirk.

Red cracks a half a smile and crosses his arms over his chest, "so, like I was saying before you decided on target practice, which speaking from personal experience here, you don't really **need,** but anyway…You good with this?" the gloved, gauntleted hand waves between the two of them.

A brow over the domino goes up into his hair line. "Good with…?"

He's sure Red is giving him a patient look under that cowl. "Hood, you and I don't have the best track record. If the Bats are pushing you into this, just know it's not—"

"Whoa," one gloved hand stops this shit before it even starts, "kid. Red. _Tim_ . If I didn't want to be here, then you can bet your ass _I wouldn't be here_. You know me well enough to know that."

Red gives a fraction of movement that could be a nod.

Hood starts ticking off with his fingers, "and second, you asshat, the demon brat already said it. This isn't just about B or N looking the other way for a minute too long. Nah, this is about the four of us just letting you get your teeth get kicked the fuck in without even giving you a hand up. No, we haven't had the best play, you and me. Yeah, I put some marks on you, and fuck yeah, it bothers me. You already know that shit, don't you? That's why the wicked scar on your neck is just suddenly harder to see, right?"

Red's mouth opens, soundless and closes again. He rubs the back of his neck, lenses averted. "It bothered you. You would fixate on it whenever I was putting you back together."

And Hood just throws his hands up with a _what the fuck did I do to deserve such assholes as family_ motion, "Christ, Tim, yeah, it bothers me. It _should_ because I fucked up an innocent _kid_ , Robin or not doesn't matter. You were, what sixteen the first time I shot you, when I basically slit your throat?"

He sees the motion of Tim swallowing, the tension in his muscles _younger_. "Something like that."

"Then you get it. I got my lot to atone for."

And that, Red just stares, wondering if he's dreaming, hallucinating because this…he never imagined he'd hear this from the Red Hood, from Jason Peter Todd.

"Besides," the guy keeps going, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight below the domino, "out of any of them, I'm probably the one that gets where you're at right now, where you _been_ for a while. It's not a good place, sure as shit wasn't for me and I know it's not for you. 'Cause your team? Yeah, you aren't straight with them either, and I don't have to have ringside seats to tell."

"My team is good," Red defends without thought.

"Not saying they aren't," Hood cuts across, "but they don't have idea **one** about you. You have to be the leader and Mr. Badass, and I get that, but how much shit have you done under their noses, Baby Bird? How many risks? How many times have you hack those sensors so they don't know if you're dying or not?"

This…is very _not_ where he expected tonight to start (and how did Jason know he's hacked the sensors before?), and Red is definitely floundering a little in the unfamiliar waters. Because this, _this_ is Jason, Hood, the guy he makes ' _don't kill me_ , _don't die_ , _don't stop breathing_ , _kick that guy in the teeth extra hard for me_ ' kind of jokes while he's up to his elbows in gore and trying to keep the guy from bleeding out. They don't do this in their partnership. This isn't _them_.

"I'm not their responsibility, Hood." _I'm no one's responsibility anymore_. He feels numb when he says it, easing down.

"But they can be yours and that's just how shit's gotta be?" Hood just shakes his head a little, "like I don't know you, like I didn't study you for a year while I was with Talia and after I got the hell out." Because in his head, Jason is right there in that moment again. A moment when he was too distracted with Dick and what was going on with him and Bruce to worry about the disappearance of an eighteen year old kid that kept coming into Gotham and picking Hood up when shit started getting bad.

"I have no idea what you want me to say," because this was _supposed to be patrol_ not 'let's have a moment where we share our feelings and sing Kum-ba-ya and shit' (since he totally forgot his bongos at home). Because Red had his time patrolling with Hood before, and it never came down to what the fuck is happening right now.

"What I _want_ you to say is, 'hey Hood. I'm going to start making an effort at not being a self-sacrificing pain-in-the-ass.' More than that, I want you to _act like it_. I'm not B and I'm not Dick. You and me? You and me have been on the up for a while now, which is good. Can't figure out why you've been trying with what I've done to you in the past, but I'm not that fucked up guy anymore, and I like you, kid. I do, I don't want to see you get screwed over anymore either. Me and Prince Brat agree on that."

Red throws his hands up, "dammit. Just, fuck, okay. You know, I get where you were coming from, Jay. I do. I get it. The Pit makes people just this side of _insane_ ," both hands make a gesture that separates the line, "so you got a little messed up in the head about the whole _replacement_ bullshit. I. Get. That. Coming back from the dead would make _anyone_ a little testy, right? Right. I mean, it's not like you were necessarily wrong or anything and we're good now, so this whatever, I don't get."

Hood wags a finger almost in Red's face, "uh-uh. I call shenanigans on you, Baby Bird. We're not _good_ and I _was_ wrong. Like I said, I got my own shit to atone for, and this is where we're going to start. Because you know what? You're not the only Detective in the family. The Brat and I know we're just as responsible as B and N for you striking out, for you _staying the hell gone_ . You think that little shit doesn't brood because you don't come back to the Cave without an air tight reason? That you won't be straight with your own damn team? You think he doesn't _realize_? That I don't? You had three moves ready if I started shooting at you."

"Five," Red counters quietly, more disturbed than he was comfortable admitting ( _it doesn't matter; Dami was right all along, Jason was right, so what the fuck is going on…_ ).

Hood throws his hands up again, "always the guy with the plan. Always. But, look Red, that's the _point_ here. You're conditioned and we did that, so it stands up that we break that conditioning if we've got any chance at getting trust from you. That's what we're going to do, and just like those other two assholes, me and the Brat have patience when it matters."

A little helplessly, Red just lets out a long breath, just wanting to get on with patrol and move on with the rest of his week (because really, Ra's gets antsy as fuck when his plots aren't foiled _in the nick of fucking time_ ). He throws up his hands, "okay. Okay. What do you want from me, Jay?"

The smirk isn't the usual half-evil baring of the teeth, but more…something that isn't the normal guy. "What I want, Baby Bird, you're far from ready to give. Not to me or B or N or even the kid. Here's hoping we'll eventually get there."

With that, Jason picks up the helmet and slides it on, making Red beyond relieved when he starts moving to the ledge. Finally, they can do what they do best.

After patrol sees the two sitting in the perch, laughing like dumbasses (Tim totally has an excuse because Mike is a terrible concussion, just a party pooper) over noob thief with a tire iron that actually _pissed_ himself without getting a shot in. Seriously, isn't bladder control in the "How to be a Criminal in Three Easy Steps" Handbook?

Jason has his head in his hand, laughing so hard he snorted ( _I have cameras in here, asshole, I'm putting that shit on YouTube_ ) while the pair of long necks sit empty by his elbow.

"No, dude. Not even the _best one_ , okay?" And since he has to stay awake for a couple of hours anyway ( _thanks, Mike_ ), he might as well tell the story about the time B slipped on ice and busted his **ass** right in front of Freeze and Poison Ivy, and those two were looking at each other and back to Batman like _are we really seeing this? Did-did he just fall and shit because that's fucking Batman, right? Are we missing something? What the ever-loving hell?_ And B didn't even hesitate but slid right between them and threw gas pellets **like a fucking boss**. Best. Night. Ever.

"Stop, Jesus! Just stop!" Jason has tears in his eyes, one hand holding his side because he's getting a stitch or because that lead pipe hit the wrong spot, but whatever since the guy is laughing like a fool at Tim's kitchen table with dawn two hours away and they're both alive after a pretty solid night.

And now that he's kind of loopy, looking back on Jason's little 'talk' from earlier, and even though Tim just passes all that shit off as lip service, he's good sitting here just talking to the guy. It's almost like the comradery he and Dick used to have before life went to shit. Almost, but not quite.


	11. Chapter 11: Protocol: The Titans

** Infection Protocol**

The television flips from one terrible news story to the next; images flash for less than a few seconds before the story, the program, the item for sale is discarded and the next thing reviewed with the same speedy scrutiny. From his spot on the floor in front, set up at the coffee table with textbooks and papers scattered over the surface, Kon gives the evil eye at Gar behind him.

"You're supposed to be reading," BB waves a hand without looking at him.

"I _can't_. Why don't you settle on something?"

"Meh, nothing good." Gar just flips the big screen off, "what are you supposed to be reading?"

The teenager groans, "Shakespeare, _Macbeth_. Dude, I can't even get what they're trying to _say_."

One of Gar's green brows arches, "you're reading Shakespeare in English 101? Seriously?"

"It's a General Studies course, everyone has to read it," the meta grumbles, "I just…don't get this."

"It's a play, Kon," Tim comes in from the kitchen, bowl of soup in hand, "you should read it standing up, moving. Like, act it out."

The two just look over at him blankly, and he sighs, puts his bowl down on a spot not covered by papers. Standing back a little, he starts with:

"The Prince of Cumberland! This is a step

On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap.

For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires;

Let not night see my black and deep desires;

The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see."

Kon's brows raise as Tim moves, talking to the side in a monologue style, hands moving to his chin like he's thinking, looking up at the ceiling when he talk about the stars. It's…well, okay. Tim just grins and slides down to sit, soup in one hand.

"That was actually pretty cool, The stars part was a good line."

Tim grins, gives a mock-bow, "that's one of my favorites, so there you go."

"I'm getting Cassie to help when gets here," Kon stands, cracks his neck, and stretches after sitting for so long. "She'll be an _epic_ witch, right?"

Gar's eyes get wide, "if you _enjoy_ having kidneys, do not phrase it that way. Just some advice."

Kon shakes his head and waves it off, going to make himself something to eat so the guy can turn his attention to Tim hunching over to spoon good old Campbell's Chicken Noodle in his mouth.

"I have no idea how she put up with him. If I was like that, Rave would have eviscerated me, _twice_."

Tim snickers a little, "I don't know, BB, maybe she would leave you with your intestines, at least? Maybe?"

"Oh no, not when it would make a good jump rope for other hellions. That would be the _first thing_ she'd go for."

"At least she wouldn't go for the brain first because, yeah, what would be the point?"

The guy's features light up with shock, mock-hurt, and humor, "you _dick_. I'm a smart dude."

Tim pauses long enough to give him a patient look then goes right back to his soup.

Beast Boy rolls his eyes in capitulation, "okay, so I don't have tech knowledge, but I've got real world intelligence, Tim."

Without looking up this time, "Reynolds wrap in the microwave, _dude_."

"Miguel dared me!"

"No he didn't, I watched the vid feed. ' _Mi amigo_ , you do this and you really are a dumb ass.' Quote."

Kon laughs on his way back in, day old pizza in hand, "you're totally busted, BB!"

Exasperated, Gar shakes his head, "this is crap. I'm the oldest here. I should get more respect."

"Hm, twenty-four and _you're so old_ ," Raven pushes her hood back. She responds to the usual return to the Tower by taking 'normal' means to get there, like the elevator instead of just appearing out of thin air (so Miguel stops having freak outs). She leans over the back of the couch, looking down at Gar who tilts his head back to meet her eyes.

"Aw, Rach, you're only three years older than me," and his eyes are so soft for her, arching his neck a little so she smiles that small, secret grin just for him.

Dutifully, Raven leans down to gently touch their lips together. "Three years?" Her brow arches delicately, "it seems more like a decade sometimes, Gar."

He laughs and leans up just enough for a quick one.

"Hello, boys." Raven greets as she rubs the tip of her nose against his.

Kon, watching with a goofy grin on his face, just waves his pizza hand (because Rave and BB were good together, just like him and Cassie used to be).

Tim gives a wave with his spoon, and something about it catches her attention. Raven's eyes narrow. "Soup, Tim?"

Blue eyes flicker up, "sure. Why not? It's really _hard_ to burn soup from a can, Rave, and I worked the microwave."

Gar hums a little under his breath, exchanging a glance with her; eyebrows drawn together, Raven crosses the room to lay a forearm none-too-gently against his forehead, completely ignoring him when he blinks at her and starts with the usual Tim nonsense of excuses, justification, and _reasons_.

"When was the last time you took antibiotics?" She cuts him off blandly.

He sighs in exasperation, "a few weeks ago…" _maybe, probably_.

"Slept?" Her thumb rests under his eye, pulling the lid down.

"I sleep!"

"Bullshit," Gar coughs into one fist, then grins wide when Tim looks over to glare.

"Injuries?"

"Nothing extensive. It's—" _just soup, take a pill, people_.

She moves, putting her "unhappy" face inches from his, "finish that sentence with 'fine' and I will send you to the _demonic_ dimension in your underwear. The one with lots of fire and carnivorous beasts."

"Yeah, please don't," Tim replies automatically, "I really _hate_ that one."

"Then stop doing foolish things," she returns just as blandly. "You are missing a vital organ that assists your body in fighting infections. Immunodeficiency, Tim."

"I handle it." Tim waves his spoon again. "If I _didn't_ then I wouldn't already have antibiotics on hand or keep up-to-date with my vaccines. I do, so win on my part."

Very methodically, Raven crosses her arms over her chest, staring him down. "System, we have a protocol breach; Raven, Sigma Lima Echo Echo Papa 65874115."

Tim blinks as the computer system ( _his fucking system_ ) lets out a series of beeps and a blue alarm starts going off in the Tower.

"What the hell?" He's already on his feet with his soup.

"You aren't the only computer person in the room," she states mildly. "You have approximately seven minutes to get up in your perch, in bed, and resting or the system will automatically initiate a lockdown on you wherever in the Tower you may be. All internet and network feeds to any device in your possession will be cut; the system will immediately call not only an ambulance but also Nightwing, the Justice League, the rest of the Titans in emergency mode, possibly some of Ra's Al Ghuls ninjas, I am uncertain about that part, I only programmed the first few, Ravager, and possibly even a doctor somewhere in the line."

Tim's eyes are HUGE. "Please tell me you're not—"

"Six minutes," her eyes are pleasantly calm.

"Even my phone!?"

"Even your phone."

"And _Dick_ of all people?"

"I am out of patience with you, Tim. Five minutes."

The guy almost throws his bowl down, running for the stairs, disappearing out of sight.

Gar is snickering to himself while Kon just shakes his head at her, wagging a finger, "we were supposed to keep this _on the low_ , Rave."

She gives an unconcerned shrug, facing a monitor that shows Tim diving into his made bed in the perch, the alarms winding down to spinning blue lights without the shrieking. His face is utterly exasperated.

"Now he's going to hack the system and—"

"Tim is excellent," she cuts him off, "but I have someone _better_. The alarm will stay." She looks back at Gar with a smile.

 _She got Vic, the best in the business._ He chuckles darkly, standing to wrap an arm around her waist, pressing his mouth a spot just below her ear.

"You have such a dark side, babe," he whispers against her neck, feeling the delicate shudder under his hands. That just makes him laugh more.

**Protocol: 48-Hour Fast**

The moment Bart Allen hits the front door of the main Tower, the automated voice informs him:

"Protocol Foxtrot Echo Echo Delta Romeo Oscar Bravo 84162.1B, Enacted."

 _Ah. Good_. Part of the teams, "Keeping Red Robin Alive" SOP seems to be working. In his civvies and back from an extensive run with Wally, he's kinda glad to be back in San Fran since his bud was trying too hard to drill Bart for details about Red; Bart knew Wally and Dick were tight from their days in the same team, 'fight bad guys and win the day,' dynamic. He knew Wally had been through a lot when he was Kid Flash and the Speed Force had come to close to killing him; at the time, Wally and Dick had been inseparable because Dick was just as afraid Wally was going to just vanish.

So when he and Wally had taken a pit stop in some rainforest, the heavy eyes of his mentor hit all the warnings in his head.

"Bart," Wally sat down on some fallen log, "we gotta talk."

 _Never good_. "Okay, man. What's the damage?" And his initial thought went dark immediately, like Wally was going to berate him for something he'd done, that he hadn't saved enough people, that he wasn't fast enough, that he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve the suit…before he knew it, he was making himself shake because no matter what, _Wally was always going to be straight with him_.

"You know me and Dick are good from back in the day," Wally holds his gaze and Bart can take a deeper breath. "So, that's why I wanted to talk to you... Dick and Batman" ( _because he was never just going to call that guy by his first name, hell no_ ) "have been trying to, you know, keep better tabs on how Tim is holding up. The guy is like a walking time bomb sometimes, jump from one crisis to the next, and they're worried about him."

Bart's brain kicks on and he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, Wal, I'm not going to apologize."

"What? Apologize?"

"Red told us the Bats were like being creepy as hell and stalking him, dude. Seriously, I'm the one that told him to stop helping them. Move his stuff to the Tower and let the Bats have Gotham all to themselves! I told him to move on, and _I'm not apologizing for it_."

A light enters Wally's eye, "Oh. I get it now."

"You know what? No, no, man. Okay, like I get it that Bats are busy as shit with their city and with the JLA and other _stuff that happens_ , but no way. Red just got totally shafted, and he won't even tell us shit about when—" Bart forces himself to calm down, breathing deep in his chest. "I'm loyal to Red, Wally. Like, he's my best friend, okay? No one else had my back for a long time but him, and all that shit that went down in Gotham with them just pisses me right the hell off. That guy is like a master assassin that doesn't kill people. He's so super smart he keeps us moving to the next plan, and-and that one time I thought I was _dead_ , like no speed was going to save me when N.O.W.H.E.R.E was going to experiment on me and shit, and Red _was right there_ to get me out." The memories are overwhelming, not being able to run, to escape, to save himself, and being strapped down for those scientists to start cutting him open…

When Red was still Robin, he'd showed up out of virtually nowhere, whooped the guard's asses, freed Bart, and pretty much carried him out of that installation ( _smell of bleach and metal and blood_ ). Back when they only met on weekends, Bart hadn't expected anyone to ever come for him, for anyone to try saving him. It's the moment Bart Allen stopped the attitude toward the human guy, saw him for what he was, and realized he would follow Tim Drake no matter what.

And arms holding him brings Bart out of that room, out of that _fear_ when he knew he wouldn't be able to save himself because Wally just wrapped him up and pulled him in tight, pressing Bart's face into his neck and grounding the younger kid.

"I get it, B," Wally said after a few long moments that they both pretended Bart wasn't tearing up, "believe me, I get it. Your crew is _tight_ , maybe more than we were back then, and you guys become more than friends when you depend on each other for your _lives_. I know how that is, so you've got to understand why I'm helping Dick by just talking to you. So if Red is bad off, if Red is serious, the Bats just want to know about it. They want the opportunity to have his back, too. You get that, right?"

Bart sighs a little.

"Dick's not asking for anyone to spy or run to the Bats tattling, but what your team has now? That's what they used to have with him, so you know, think about giving them a chance. That's all I'm asking, B."

Finally, Bart stands back out of Wally's embrace, trying not to be humiliated by how he pansied out for a minute. He wipes his face with the palm of his hand,

"Lemme talk to Kon, Cass, and Rave. I can't promise anything, Wally, but…I'll try, okay?" _For you and for Red, fuck Dick_.

"Thanks, B," Wally grins down at him, an easy smile before his hand latches on to Bart's bicep and he's pulling the younger kid to sit down. "So, you never told me about the N.O.W.H.E.R.E sitch, think you're up to talking about it?"

Up in the now, Bart hits the communal floor, drops three bags of groceries in the kitchen, and brings the system on-line. One of the monitors shows Red downstairs in parts of his uni, a welder's mask over his face, and doing something probably really dangerous to the old Batplane he converted into the Titans' mode of transportation for non-fliers. With a half-shrug, Bart doesn't bother him.

Instead, he accesses the hidden drive and brings up the alpha spreadsheet, records the date, time, protocol (84162.1B means Red hasn't eating in over forty-eight hours, _dumbass_ ); he adds more in the notes column. After a long minute of typing, he saves his progress, closes the spreadsheet, and stretches, arching his back. He's got some killer stuff to make a veggie lasagna for when everyone else starts making their way to the Tower for the usual weekend gathering (and he will make sure Gar doesn't get anywhere near the stove this time because, geeze, the guy just needs to _not ever try cooking_. Calling the fire department to a Tower full of superheroes had been just obviously humiliating).

He tosses his jacket on a couch and meanders back to the kitchen to start unloading the bag full of eats, humming to himself as he cleans the squash, tomatoes, eggplant, onions, and the rest of the stuff for a massive salad. Sure, they had their junk-food nights when 'holy shit, we lived through that' kinda demanded it, but healthy stuff never hurt, and Bart makes one hell of a veggie lasagna. Even BB eats it, and he doesn't eat anything but cans of squeeze cheese and spam. Really, no lie. _Spam_. Ick.

Cassie shows up as Bart is getting the cooked noodles poured out into a strainer in the sink.

"Bart! Ooh, you are making the wonder vegetable concoction," she leans over the ingredients waiting on the counter with anticipation in her eyes.

He laughs a little and shakes the strainer to get all the water off, "I haven't made it in a few weeks. Didn't want everyone to get sick of it, you know?"

Cassie just hums as he puts the colander with the rest of the stuff and absently sets the two jars of tomato sauce in front of her. She easily opens each one with the metallic little pop, watching as he lays the first layer of chopped vegetables, spices (because you can never have _too_ much garlic, no matter what Miguel says), cheese, and spoons some sauce on top before the layer of noodle.

"I don't believe it would be possible," she informs him cheerfully with a pat on the back.

"I dunno, that barbeque Vic made last time he visited was, like, so totally better than this."

"It was tasty, but your dishes are just as flavorful."

Bart grins up at her, "aw! I'll remember that next weekend when I'm shopping. You love my baked chicken."

"Indeed I do. If you make it, I shall bring my full appetite," she ruffles his hair and holds out the bowl of shredded cheese so he can get to the next layer faster. "For tomorrow night, I have brought excellent mana from the fountain of Athena. Everyone may dine like the gods."

Bart immediately stops, staring at her with wide eyes.

Cassie barks out peals of laughter, "I'm joking, Bart. Joking! Diana and I stopped to get steaks on the way here."

"Oh! Oh, well, good. I was kinda hoping, but you know—"

The kitchen window abruptly opens and Kon peeks his head in, "hey guys!" He's got an honest-to-God picnic basket on one arm and that can only mean _one thing_ …

"Ma Kent made bread," Bart is already hyper-focused on the basket.

Kon just laughs, slapping B on the back easy, "you know she did."

"Rock _on_ , oh man, give me some and I'll put in garlic bread. Dude, we are going to feast tonight!"

Kon eyes the counter and grins widely, "Fucking, really? Veggie casserole? That's totally sweet."

"Veggie lasagna, man," Bart goes back to layering while Kon pulls a carefully wrapped loaf of bread out of the basket and looks for a bread knife to start sawing off chunks.

Cassie peels garlic cloves and gets the butter ready.

In an hour, the kitchen smells like _almost time to eat_ with everything baking, and Bart easily taps a few keys on the wall control, opening up the vent in the lower workshop so the smell wafts down. Rave and BB are in the kitchen, BB sitting on the counter (where he's been exiled; set _one_ oven on fire and everyone's all antsy about it, geeze) while Rave makes some epic thing with French vanilla pudding, Cool Whip, graham cracker crumbs, and whatever else. She's humming while she moves, and Gar is perfectly happy to watch her with soft, happy eyes.

The elevator opens and Tim steps out from the lower floors, grinning when he sees everyone's on the communal floor already and the whole place smells like heaven. His stomach gives a painful growl that hadn't even bothered him until now as he moves through the floor to greet everyone (and check out who's winning on the foosball table because his money is on Cassie every time, _sorry Kon **you know it's true**_ ).

"Everyone have a good week?" He calls, wiping his hands with a rag that is already wrecked.

The team turns with greeting until they see him covered head to foot in a variety of dark, darker, and black substances. His face is a mess of smudges and sweat from various itches, forearms covered to the elbows, clothes stained, and various cuts and scrapes along his hands and wrists.

"Dude," B just shakes his head, "did you roll around in Ma Kent's pig pen or what?"

And _oh_. Looking down at himself sheepishly, Tim waves it off, "I haven't had time to do _any_ upkeep to my vehicles downstairs. I mean, like, _nothing_. The Ducati was ridiculously in need of maintenance, the cars needed oil changes, brakes, and whatever else, the plane is somehow still flyable, and just," he shrugs a little helplessly, "I like doing it myself."

And because they are the best possible people _ever_ , none of them even comment on the dark circles under his eyes or the recognizable strain in his face that screams he'd been in Gotham recently.

A self-sacrificing sigh from Cassie and she's marching right up to him, hands on his shoulders spinning him around and pushing him right back to the elevator, "you will go _shower_ because, ew, and get back down here in a hurry. Bart made his vegetable concoction that is utterly delectable and Raven has made dessert. Then we have decided we will imbibe on terrible horror movies tonight, so you must be quick."

Tim is laughing all the way to the elevator, "all right. All right, twenty minutes, and I am _so_ here for Veggie Lasagna and B-Movies."

**Necessary Movie Night Protocol**

Protocol: Tango Echo Romeo Romeo Oscar Romeo 2276514, Enacted

The minute Cassie hears it, she's flying up the side of the building. The sensors scan her, validate her before she even gets to the window and the one in the communal floor opens silently for her to float in. Her eyes search the dark room frantically as she unconsciously moves further in, going around one of the four couches by memory (since Raven stopped rearranging them to mess with Bart) and the sound of heavy breathing, panting draws her closer.

Laid out on one of the couches, Tim is making broken, painful noises in his sleep, hands fisted in the blanket over him. Behind closed lids, his eyes are moving, seeing something horrific, something he would never unsee.

Quickly, Cassie moves to the vid wall and taps quickly, hands moving in familiar motions. Immediately, _Star Trek: The Trouble with Tribbles_ starts playing on low volume. That done, she goes back to the couch where Tim is moving restlessly in his sleep, his chest still heaving sporadically, but he is simply too exhausted to wake up.

She slides down to sit on the floor right at the spot where his hip is under the blanket and reaches up to lay both arms on the edge of the couch, making sure to keep just a few scant inches away from the heat of his body, close enough for him to feel her there but far enough that he wouldn't jerk and touch her to rouse himself. She pointedly looks halfway over her shoulder and takes long, slow breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out.

A few moments is all it takes for him to stop writhing, for his legs to still and his breathing to ease down. More slowly, however, his fists and forearms unclench. He breathes in time with her, falling deeper into sleep.

Twenty minutes later, the elevator opens without a sound and Bart, shoes already in hand, peeks his head out, eyes searching in the dark. He creeps in on his toes, eyes going to Cassie still on the floor, the episode winding down with another already queued up and arches a brow at her.

Cassie mouths, _bathroom_ , and Bart nods twice, jerking his head to the side. He creeps over as she stands and takes the same spot, setting his shoes beside him and raising his arms to the edge of the couch, a few inches between his arm and Tim's leg. He uses his free hand to check his phone and play Angry Birds.

When Cassie comes back, she brings him a cherry Zesti and a bowl of popcorn.

An hour later and they switch Sci-Fi and _Firefly_ is thankfully on, Kon arrives via elevator and also takes in the scene. He sets down the two pies Ma made for the team on the counter before he creeps over and waves a hand at Bart who gives him a grateful smile and a hand motion to his very numb ass. He stands up slowly and moves for Kon to take his place, his arms up on the edge of the couch as he settles in.

Gar and Rachel are wrapped around one another, sharing a breath-stealing kiss when the elevator opens up later in the evening and pull away to the scene on the communal floor. Holding hands, they both creep quietly across the room to see Kon's eyes at half-mast and Bart already asleep on one couch, drooling, with popcorn in his hair.

Gar grins and waves a hand at Kon while Rachel just sighs fondly; rubbing his eyes, Kon grins back and stands, his spine giving a series of cracks (alien physiology be damned, he gets stiff just like a human) as Gar sits down and leads Rachel to sit between his legs. Their hands intertwined, Gar raises their arms to the edge of the couch cushions.

Kon wanders back into the kitchen, quietly moving. He comes back with a slice of pie for Rachel and Gar and puts down the terrible tasting fruit punch Gar likes along with a vitamin water for Rachel. Cassie's already had hers, so he eases down on the empty couch and watches the last of the episode before he closes his eyes.

The sound of _House M.D._ with Hugh Laurie is quiet in the background when he rouses. He knows night has fallen because, well, _Bat_. Tim blinks, feeling like he's slept better than he has in weeks and looks around to see a head of messy green hair slumped close to his arm. Oh. He forgot it was Friday already. That case must have taken more time than he thought.

He stretches, arches his body in a clean line before he eases up, leaping over the back of the couch soundlessly. He huffs a laugh and moves to the couch where Bart is snoring softly; he eases the popcorn bowl out of the guys arms, moving fast and silently to pick the pieces out of his hair before he picks up the blanket off the back of the couch and eases it over the speeder (who just snorts and goes right back to sawing logs).

Then Cassie on the other couch, laying on her stomach with an arm over the side; he eases her shoes off and slips a blanket over her too. Kon is propped up against the arm of the third couch, neck at an awkward angle. A light touch at the back of his neck has him raise up slightly with a grunt, long enough for Tim to slip a pillow under his head before he's out like a light. Another blanket over him.

Rave and Gar are always a challenge and Tim just looks down on them fondly before kneeling, his touch feather light under both their knees as he basically lifts just enough to roll them on the couch he'd been sleeping on (it was wider anyway). He backs up slowly as the two automatically arrange themselves closer into each other, lying on their sides with Gar's arm sliding over Rave's hip and her forehead nestling in the niche of his sternum before he eases around the back of the couch and flips the blanket he was wrapped in over them instead.

A hand motion and the vid wall cuts off, leaving him in complete darkness, just the far-away lights of San Fran twinkling out the big windows (it's not Gotham, not home, but it's…something). Tim doesn't need light to meander to the elevator, letting his upper body stretch again on the way. He'd get a quick shower, warm up his muscles, go down to the training simulator and work out some of the kinks (the bad shoulder and hitch in his hip always needed some time before he felt almost 100%), then to work on the next thing. Before he hits the floor for the perch, his eyes soften at the sleeping members of his team, his friends, the people he would defend.

He smiles, a genuine smile before the door slides closed.

**Dealing with the Bats Protocol**

"Titan's Tower," he answers automatically, "we're not in right now. To leave a message for Wonder Girl, press 1 and then #. To leave a message for Superboy, press 2 and then #—"

"Really, Gar?" Dick's voice is warm, tone friendly.

Laughing in the receiver, the guy in question just props his feet up on the main control board of the monitoring center and looks out at San Fran through the huge windows.

"What can I say, D? I'm on _monitoring_ duty for two more days and this shit is boring." He makes another cursory sweep of the news channels, the system seeking out certain key words, flagging events for review.

"You always hated it, man. There's nothing else to do but suffer."

"Thanks, Dick. Really helpful there. I'm trying to remember if there was a good reason I was on a team with you in the first place, but nothing is really coming to mind."

"It was my charisma and leadership abilities, don't lie."

"Pfft, more like I wanted to know the secret to fighting crime _in green panties_. Like, I have no idea how you still had _balls_ once you hit the teen years. Seriously, man."

Dick burst out laughing, "you suck, BB."

"Talk to Rave about it. She _likes_ when I do."

"Oh my God. TMI."

"Whatever, Dick. We walked in on you and Kori _on the ceiling_ , dude. That was the most awkward team meeting in the history of the Titans."

"Just when I forget why I left, you've got to throw it out there."

"Really? Because Kori was _right_ in the middle of an apparently _spectacular_ orgasm when the elevator opened? Totally not our fault."

"It was a mood killer!"

"Then you should have kept it out of the communal floor, asshole."

"…that's part of the appeal, Gar. Kori talked about it multiple times. Remember?"

Grinning, the younger man just sighs over the phone because he misses hanging out with Dick (like, as a person, not necessarily as a Bat), who he always looked up to as a super hero, as a leader, as a person. It had been too long since they hung out. Maybe someday. Not today because Dick always has a reason.

"So, what can the Titans do for the Bats since I'm totally sure this isn't a social call?"

A few moments of silence of the other end and Gar just lets it roll, easing himself back in his chair. He hopes this isn't what he thinks it is but he already heard the big news from Bart. Good for them, trying with Red again.

"So, I already know you're not going to tell me anything important," Dick starts.

"Nope," Gar hums in agreement.

"Even though I was _your best friend first_ , not that I'm _bringing that shit up_ or anything Gar."

"Of course not, you wouldn't _do that_ , Dick."

"And that I was there about the time you started hitting puberty, man, so I'm the one that had your back all those 'uncomfortable' times—"

"Don't even," Gar deadpans, head falling into his hand while his face heats (animals have _crazy_ maturation, that's just the way nature worked, okay?).

"I'm just _saying_ ," Dick responds and the asshole is definitely smiling. "But yeah…He's not okay. I know that now, Gar. I mean, I would have got it _sooner_ if someone gave me a call—"

"Whoa, right there. Keeping you up-to-date on your own family _isn't our job_. Don't get me wrong. I love you like a brother, I do. Rave does, too. But that was the first thing we promised, Tim when he came back from…well, you know. When he came back with the weird costume, _not that I'm judging or whatever_ , but me and Rave told him we wouldn't run tattling to you behind his back. And we've stuck to it."

"Gar…he was fucking _tortured_ ." And there it is, the Dick Grayson that is horrified, one that took the habit from the big guy and gets righteously _pissed_ when someone screws with the Bat-soldiers. "And only Jason knew anything about it."

"I know," Gar's memory goes hazy with the sight of Tim's back when the Red Robin costume came off. "I was there for the clean-up, Dick. Rave…Rave made the call for Kon to call Jason over you." Gar shrugs but realizes Dick can't see it (probably because he doesn't want Tim accessing any video calls). "It was the right one at the time."

"…that's pretty fucked, you know."

"Not really. She made the right choice, Dick. First off, all those not-calls we've gotten from you about him? Yeah, Rave's was a little _pissed_. She's better now. Second, dude, you would have flipped shit, been up here in a few hours, and Tim would have vanished to get away from you. He was too much of a flight risk at the time."

Silence again and Gar can just see the guy sitting in half his Nightwing onsie, looking pretty destroyed. "Then what can you tell me?"

"Not shit. Not until Tim's better. I heard you and the other scary Gotham dudes are trying to get back in with him, and hey man, I'm all for it, so's the rest of the team…well, except Bart—"

"I've talked to Wally already."

"Then you should be happy Tim didn't take his advice and leave Gotham behind," Gar shrugs, "When Tim's okay with you guys again, I'll bring it up to the team. We'll reconfigure the protocols."

"Protocols?"

"Good talking to you, Dick."

" _Gar_."

" _Bird Wonder_."

Sigh, "all right man. At least…now that you _know_ , if there's some heavy shit going down. Fucking call me, okay?"

Gar hums, "can't promise. It'll go to a vote, but I'll argue like hell for you, Dick."

"I'll take what I can get."

"…I'll," and he sighs because, yeah, "Dick, I'll try to talk to Tim for you." He's had his own moments in the extreme when Dick had him, had his fucking back, and it really sucked being in the middle of a family thing when his friends, his team mates old and new, were on opposing sides.

"Thanks man."

Gar hangs up and his headache is back because now, he has too much to consider.

Red's Protocol: Motivation

Cassie spits out a mouthful of blood in the dirt, craning her neck to watch as her "sister" grins, a ruthless snarl, as the victor. In that smirk, Cassie feels the shame that she lost, the overwhelming sense of weakness that _she_ is simply not good enough, that she should leave the island in shame, to never wear the mark of Wonder Girl…

Diana and Donna calmly move away from the rest of the watching Amazons to approach the victor, their eyes narrow but forced by tradition to congratulate her on her win, the new _Wonder Girl_ , while Cassie remains on the ground in dishonor.

"Cassie, _Cassie_ , focus on my voice," her gauntlet is glowing and she is hearing Red's voice, her communicator is going off. Her eyes fill with tears, waver because _she can no longer answer the call_. In her state, she briefly considers thrusting her spear through her own heart to escape the utter humiliation (pitiful, foolish girl).

" **Cassie** , answer me."

"T-Tim…I…" _I've failed,, failed Diana and Donna, I've failed everyone_ …

"Cassie, she's _cheating_. There's a chemical compound emanating from her pores. She's taken some kind of performance-enchasing drug to **try and beat you**. That's the effects you're feeling, that's the only way she could beat you. **She had to cheat**. Do you understand? Tell me you understand."

And her mind switches on, "what? Tim?"

"She's cheating, Cassie. She's trying to take the Wonder Girl legacy from you, and she couldn't do it on her own strength."

Now, she's shoving herself to her knees, shaking off the sense of failure, the sense of loss, of hopelessness, of weakness. Red said _cheating_ because the god's damned _coward_ couldn't beat her on her own and that really, just really **pisses her off**.

"Get up, Cassie," and Red's voice is a growl, a demand. Just like when they fight alongside one another. "Get. Up. And. Kick. Her. Fucking. _Ass_."

From the depth of her chest, a battle cry erupts, and Cassie Sandsmark sneers with blood painting her face. "You _dishonorable bitch_. You coward," and now the gathered Amazons are drawing back in surprise. "She has taken a mortal drug in an attempt to win this match!"

The enemy's eyes go wide; Diana and Donna drawing back as well, staring at the wench.

Cassie advances, kicking up her shield snatch it out of the air, "but you _will not best me_ , not today, not tomorrow, never because _I am an Amazon of worth_ ! My word is my bond, and I will fight _with honor_!"

And Diana, the Princess, smiles widely, her own eyes glowing with the heat of battle. "The current Wonder Girl has made it back to her feet! The match will continue!"

Cassie yells as she charges. She _will not fail_.

Red Protocol: Mechanical intervention

The perch is part living quarters, part planning room for bringing together the strategy. His own workshop, however, is downstairs, a windowless room taking up an entire level, one with reinforced walls for the whole _just in case this thing blows up a little on the first test_. He starts his ideas with terribly crude drawings that usually get tweaked during the fabrication process (since he sure as shit isn't trusting his ideas to S.T.A.R. Labs, honestly, what haven't the fucked up in the last decade?) so he always has toys and new devices on hand for the next _well, shit, time to save the world…again._

He's working on a new incarnation of the force field cancelling discs because the ones he made previously kept shorting out; the computer overhead warns him that someone is in the elevator on the way. A necessary alarm so he can pause whatever he's working on to make sure it doesn't malfunction and take someone else out at the same time.

Raven steps out of the elevator, civvies and her usual calm aplomb; he smiles at her and _totally_ doesn't point out that she has a green feather in her hair. Nope. Not his business.

Besides, her eyes are seeking out every corner of the workshop, her feet almost silent as she moves between his inventions, suits, wing-sets, and miscellaneous other things without saying a word to him. Once she stops outside the glass container with a very specific, one-use wing set, he understands the _why_ she's down now; he's opened the containment unit for a few minutes to work on the wiring (should have waited until everyone was gone for the week, shit).

"Uh, yeah," scratching the back of his neck, Tim gets up to stand beside her, looking at the slightly glowy wings, extended out. "That's here." Sure, she knows he almost took out Trigon's eyes with a completely plain wing to buy them some time, but he is already anticipating a _not-happy_ Rave.

Raven finally turns to look at him (and that feather is really distracting, _Gar_ ), one finely manicured brow arched and looking decidedly miffed (called it).

"What is this, Tim?" She waves a hand, "you were able to channel a modicum of Trigon's power, obviously. For what end?"

He holds up both hands, palm out, "not for any reason you may be thinking, okay? This," he waves a hand, "is a contingency in case he or the brothers show back up again." With a sigh, Tim looks up at the wings instead of at her, "the last time you pulled energy from The Deadly Sins, you were sick for a _week_ . If you'd have to do it again, the wings can act as a bridge, a connection point, so you wouldn't have to put nearly as much effort into it. I can fire the wing into _whoever_ and you've already got an opening." _Please understand, this is to protect you_.

Raven's mouth falls open a little as she stares up at him because the plan is utterly…brilliant.

"It could also work other ways," he continues hastily, "that time you were just sapped of energy and couldn't even get yourself standing, well, this isn't _good_ energy per say, but Trigon's power has a circular effect for some reason. His power fed into you converts in your body and becomes _yours_ , but…it's only for emergencies, which is why the containment. I don't want you to fight the temptation more than you already have to."

"You did some type of maintenance on the containment. That is how I was able to feel the power," she guesses shrewdly.

Tim looks down a little sheepish, "yeah, I did. Stupid, huh?"

With a fond look, Raven takes a leap and reaches out gently, slowly, and takes the edge of his sleeve between her fingertips. "Thank-you, Tim. Thank-you." Because not only is this a show of trust, but also of his driving need to protect what he considers his. His team, his friends.

"Nah," he waves it off with his other hand, smiling down at her, "I've got your back, Rave. That's what friends are for, right?"

Red Protocol: Confrontation Planning, Bring Food

The plane is cloaked, not really helpful at the moment since Red is sitting on top with a turkey and cheese Subway Classic, legs crossed at the ankles (that sweet onion sauce is just so awesome). He takes a drink of sweet tea and rubs the bottom of the cup against his tights so he doesn't get a ring on the top of the plane.

He checks his cell phone again, presses a button to set the traps to 'Arm' and puts the phone back down, humming as he gets bits of green pepper and cucumber.

 _Right on time_ , the sound of 'holy shit that's fast' resounds in the distance. Red takes another bite.

The minute a foot travelling the speed of light hit the outer barrier, the trap springs and the speeder is thrown in a whirling tornado of _get me off this thing, I'm going to hurl_. Red watches absently, finishing off the last bite until the momentum is worn and the connection to the Speed Force severed by the trap.

The man on the ground, caged by a yellow force field groans in agony, trying very hard to keep all his crucial internal organs from spilling out of his mouth. When the guy finally lifts his head an iota and looks up, Red gives a wave from his seat on top an invisible plane because _really_ Bats know how to make an entrance.

"Tim?! Tim, what the hell-"

"Hey Barry. How's it going?"

The former Flash groans and lays his head back down as Red crumples up his sub paper and shoves it in the little bag. He hops down with a flourish of cape (because he twisted his knee a little too hard last mission) and saunters over to the trapped speeder while sipping on his tea.

He gives Barry a few more minutes to re-orientate himself because these traps were really a bitch (necessary to build at the time, but whatever) and folds himself to sit cross-legged right in front of the guy.

"I am so telling your dad on you, kid." He groans after a moment.

Red huff a very unfunny laugh, "my dad's dead, Barry."

The eyes finally look up at him as Barry has enough strength to push himself up to sit. "I meant Bats, Tim. Sorry—"

"Batman isn't my dad," Red sips his tea again. "So, funny meeting you here, huh?"

The older man just waves a hand, "okay, okay. I don't need the shtick, Tim. What's this about?"

Red just sips on his tea again, saying nothing because, really, put it together, Barry.

The former Flash throws his head back with a very painful sigh. He rubs his temple and accurately guesses, "Bart."

"Yup."

Immediately, Barry looked older, years older. "Tim…this, this is for the best. Bart needs someone like Wally to be an influence on him. I—I can't…"

"Is this about him being from the future and your grandson?" Red asks in a bored tone, "because I already know all of that."

Barry freezes, unnatural for a speeder and stares. "How did you…? Not even Bats know about…"

Red just taps the side of his temple, "know your team. That's Bat rule number 17, maybe number 24, whatever. But, I've always known who Bart Allen really is and why he's here. I know what he's done and, honestly, can't blame him for doing what he had to in order to survive in the future. We've all done things we aren't proud of. At the end of the day, he's still putting his life on the line to save the present."

"Does he know?" Barry asked hoarsely.

"His memories are still gone from what I've observed. He doesn't know he's really your grandson." Red shrugs a shoulder, looking at the shell-shocked former Flash. "He's…hurt because he looks up to you regardless and you just dipped out on him. You dropped the mentoring thing without a word, so he's been trying to tell Wally he doesn't deserve to be Kid Flash. He's been trying to redesign the Impulse costume without me knowing." The tone is enough.

"It's harder for him because he doesn't get his speed from the Speed Force," Barry answers hoarsely and dammit the guy's eyes are watery. Shit. This makes bad-cop/bad-cop harder.

"Barry," Red leans closer, "I know this is a shock for you because with what we do? There's always that fear in the back of your mind, the 'is this going to be the last one for me?' I get it, you know. We all do. And now, here you're faced with your legacy, so yeah, I'm sure it's a mind fuck." ( _"Where do you see yourself in twenty years, Timothy? What does the adult you look like?_ And his immediate thought was a gravestone).

"I didn't do right by that kid, Tim. Something happened that he had to come back here with no memory, _with nothing_ . You don't know how I found him, you don't know how badly I could have already fucked that kid up. And all this time… all this time he's my grandson. He's my boy's boy." Barry scrubs his face, and Red gets it with an _ah-ha_ moment. "Wally, Wally's a good influence on him. Wally will do right by Bart, Tim."

"Wally's a great guy, Barry. He is. But, Wally isn't you." Red touches the spot on his domino to deactivate the security setting and let the lenses pop up to reveal his eyes. "Bart needs _you_ , the guy that originally found him, the guy that gave him his start in our world as heroes. You're the one he's drawn to, whether it's an instinct or what, but yeah. You have this chance right now to make sure he stays on the straight and narrow, to influence him to be even better than he's already proven he is. Bart listens to me, well _sometimes_ , and he likes being part of the team, but there's always something _missing_. It's you, Barry; you're that something he needs."

And the former Flash seems to be taking it all in, listening intently. After a long few minutes of nothing but Red slurping the rest of his tea, Barry finally looks up again.

"Batman would be proud of you," the admission is quiet, sincere.

A harsh something is right on the back of his tongue, an acidic, bitter comment on Batman being proud of his real sons, but like he has for too long, Red chokes those things back to simmer in his chest instead because this was about helping _Bart_ , not about him and the Bats.

Instead, he shrugs again, "what Batman doesn't know won't hurt him." He stands up, cape swirling around him and dusts off his tights. "So, you think about what I've said. Take your time because this trap is going to be active for about seven more hours or so."

Red troops back to the plane, hits a spot on his harness and the invisible door opens, revealing a cooler bag. He takes the cooler bag back and drops it through the force field because, yeah, no connection to the Speed Force, no problem.

Calculating eyes narrow at the cooler, "how did you…?"

"I set seven traps on your most travelled routes that wouldn't intercept with any other speeders," Red doesn't even hesitate to inform him, "like two weeks ago. All I had to do was wait for you."

Barry's eyes are wide, "kid, you really scare the shit out of me."

Red just grins a little maniacally below the domino, "if I had a nickel for every time I heard that." He gives a wave and heads back to the plane, his point made.

Red Protocol: Maintain multiple contingencies

He's screaming so loud, so long his throat is giving out, bleeding from the strain. His body rips itself apart, puts itself back together, reforms. Bones snap, skin _rips_ , claws and wings and wicked teeth and scales and shells and paws and more, so much more trying to…trying to do something.

He throws back his head and screams again, his voice wrecked. It's out of control, _he's out of control_.

He's locked himself in, locking everyone else out so they wouldn't be hurt, **so he couldn't hurt any of them without meaning to**. And the pounding on the door is Supes or something, flashes in his peripheral of Rave trying to get in, but Red thought this panic room out too well. She wasn't getting in even with her spooky powers because of anyone ever, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt her. He would kill himself first.

The door groans but doesn't move under that massive alien strength because Red always has back-up plans for his back-up plans.

His body ripples again, another wave of agony on the cellular level as he's ripped apart again and nothing, _nothing_ , no amount of pain could make him open that door.

So that stupid jerk had to find another way, that Smarty McSmartpants. Overhead, clanging and Gar has enough in him to look up as a sneaker kicks the vent in and Tim drops down from the ceiling.

"No. NO! Get out!" Copper on the back of his tongue. "Get the FUCK OUT!" The guy doesn't even have a suit on with body armor, just jeans and a t-shirt.

Tim leaps on him without answering and something cold pressed right into his shoulder, the guy's hands working super-fast, arm hiked up to bring down another, longer syringe full of something green right into his chest. The force made the needle piece his breastbone to go straight into his wildly beating heart, another agony on top the others. Gar's eyes go incredibly wide, rolling in the back of his head as the spasms start all over again, and he's afraid, so afraid he'll become one of the beasts and _rip Tim's spine out to sink his teeth into meat and blood_.

Tim holds on, doesn't get bucked off, shoving the depressor so the concoction floods Gar's heart before he takes the needle back out.

"Red Robin access code, Alpha Sigma Sigma Hotel Oscar Lema Echo 55681."

The main blast doors open and Gar's hands fists, "no, Tim..can't…"

The guy just sighs, irritated and probably with Gar's stupidity, holding him up and against his chest so Gar can take his time and shake. "Dude, I _always_ have a contingency plan. Haven't you figured that out yet?" As the rest of the team surrounds him, hands on his arms, his forehead, Rachel's eyes wide (and maybe a little misty? Is he hallucinating?) when she takes him from Tim's lap, cradles him against her and kisses his forehead, he has a vague sense that the pain is fading away. He doesn't feel like the animal in him is taking over again, like his body is going to rage out of control. He feels like he can just pass the hell out and sleep while everyone is just there to be with him.

"Dude, totally…owe you…a sixer. My treat," Gar mumbles before he's…out.


	12. Chapter 12: Calling Out

"Red."

"Hey Baby Bird, what's shaking?"

"The usual, Hood. What do you need?"

"A better sense of humor, kid."

Red barks out a laugh, shaking his head a little. "I agree, your idea of funny usually involves too many things that blow up."

"Only with people I like, asshole. It's a short list. You should feel honored."

"So glad I'm part of the group, man. Just stoked about it."

"See? All about perspective."

And Red can hear the mirth in that jerk's voice, pictures him grinning like a creep.

"No, really, man. I'm calling to check in on you. Haven't seen you in Gotham for a few weeks. And…" he can hear the guy take a long breath on the other end, "it's been a bad week, you know? Just…thought I'd see how things are on your end." The rasp of a lighter and inhale over the speakers is telling because no way would Alfred deal with him smoking anywhere near the Manor (maybe, mostly, Alfred always had a soft spot for Jason).

Safe house, probably the one near Crime Alley since he keeps the beer stocked , Red thinks automatically. Not that he's in the manner consistently anyway, at least from what Dami says.

"Nothing much to report. Pretty quiet." Other than the ape-shit crazy H.I.V.E thing, but that's was really more of a joke than a real attempt to take over the world. Come on, if you're really going to try using some kind of half-assed particle accelerator to fuck with space/time, pay your electric bill or don't piss off super heroes that can hack your shit well enough to screw with the grid (morons). The ensuing fight had been pretty epic with the light bombs he'd randomly set because, yeah, those just made the party even better. Bart had the time of his fucking life (mental note: big animals that are easily startled are not conducive to a fight in the dark, tell Gar to change into something else next time).

"Uh-hu. How many contusions didja get out of that fight?"

What now? Slowly, Red looks up at the ceiling, his eyes narrow behind the domino. He makes a few keystrokes and the perch comes up clean for camera other than his; he sets the system to do a manual sweep of the Tower for just in case (even though he has the system automatically do it every eight hours).

Another inhale.

"Hood." There's a wealth of meaning there.

"Sensors," the guy says like it's obvious , "ones in your suit. Didn't think you were the only one that could hack a mainframe were you? And, shit, man these are the good ones, like, your people are all kinds of concerned if they're dropping the extra fifty bucks."

"Seriously, Hood—"

"Gotta make sure you're not dead somehow. After you pulled your profile from BI, I got no other way to know if I should sendflowers or not. You feel me, Red?"

And, well, the guy might have a point (not that he'd ever admit it).

"After what happened this week, B is starting on some new protocols, make sure everyone's on the up and up. That includes you, you know. Protocol for keeping better communications, get the 'low on what the shit-heads" (criminal element, Red reads) "are into, new poisons hitting the streets, the usual. He's thinking about doing some bi-weeklies with everyone since it's rough to read everyone's report when you're kicking ass every other night. Meetings would help that or so he thinks."

There's a lot there he's going to get to soon enough. "Hood, what the hell happened?"

"Kid. C'mon. Gotham , right? What didn't happen?"

A brow arches over his domino, but Hood can't see it anyway. "How about something more concrete than that."

"You'd know if you still logged into your non-existent profile and checked-in, asshole."

"Your witty repartee is always fantastic. No joke."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be here all week. Tip your waitress. Whatever. So, Crane's got some new stuff on the market. Big Wing… He got it pretty bad, trying to get the brat outta the way. It was touch and go for a while."

"Shit," Red's leaning forward in his seat a little. Dick, that recently sent him yet another text message (along with a few emails) asking him to come back for the yearly tag-up, saved Dami and got a face full of instant fear . It's not an unusual thing, really. It might be for Dick since his stint as Batman, he'd been trying to be a good role model for Dami, to be more careful about getting the shit kicked out of him (because security footage gave it away with the slight delays before Dick took a jump into a random fray or against the big bads. He was still trying to be more like the Bat ).

"Yeah, new stuff is potent enough to affect heart rate and shit. B was trying to get a new antidote synthed, but it took time since the formula was totally different. He said something about a new composition."

"He's…okay?"

Another puff of the cigarette. "…Still feeling the after-shocks. You know."

And, yeah. Yeah he did. They all had their gauntlet by fire, residual moments caught in that trippy, drugged-induced haze of their worst fucking nightmares (his dad screaming while he died; Kon's soulless eyes while the hand still reaches; the 'Haven crumbling below his feet; twisted, mangled corpses around him…). Hell, years later and he still has his moments. A lot of them.

"He's not okay then." Red goes on, and something changes, Hood becomes Jason, Jay, because there's something different in his sigh.

"It was…close. Closer than anyone would have liked."

"Crane's working with biological weapons now, not just psychedelics."

"Traces of something else organic."

"…Fuck. Gotham's going to have a dream team going." Again. Man, those ones always sucked. Not just one crazy fucker running around with huge weapons, but a slew of them. Fan. Fucking. Tastic.

"Maybe. It's not cool, that's what I can tell you." Then the soft wahh of the clip coming out of the .45 Glock, working back in like Jay's hands need something to do. A brow arches over his domino, but Hood can't see it anyway.

"Then…BB had a bad one, got pretty chewed up. B is in Hong Kong to check her out since Big Wing's somewhat okay."

What? What now!? "Sonofa—what?," Red spits out because Cass , "why the hell didn't you call me? I would've been in Gotham—" or on my way to Hong Kong .

Now the tone is tired, not snarking back at him. "Just like B said, Baby Bird. We're not trying to get a soldier. We're trying to get abrother . Feel me?"

"That's fucking irrelevant, Hood. Nightwing's down, B's out of town, and that's a pretty good reason to call in someone else."

"Me and Demon Wonder can handle it for the time being. Besides, if there was some way for me to know what you were up to or what cases you were on or if you were, you know, bleeding out like a motherfucker or whatever, then I could have seen for myself it was good to call your ass in, right?"

Red throws up his hands. "Really? Tell me a time that you've called and I haven't shown up . You. Complete. Dick."

There's a chuff on the line, "remember what I said about breaking the old conditioning, Tim?" And there go the pseuds right out the window, "I meant that shit. Not fucking around with you."

"You don't need a damn profile in BI to pick up the phone, Jay."

"No, I sure as shit don't, Timmy, but I'm done making those old mistakes."

And just fuck he's already getting a headache . He can feel the lid of his left eyes twitching under the domino and briefly wonders if it's time for his aneurism to hit just from dealing with these asshats .

"So, you're not calling me unless it's to check up ? That right?"

"Yeah, me and the Bats got it straight, even the brat. Time to stop sending the wrong message so you might start coming into town without riding a case and shit. You come when you want and we'll be here. You wanna jump in on what we're into, that's gotta be your call."

And that's just…fuck. Even Dami, dammit.

Red sucks in a breath because—

"Don't do it." Hood cuts him off mid-thought, talking through his exhale of smoke. "Don't come here because you think it's the job. You do you for the moment. Me, the brat, and BG are working it night by night."

"There's more." Not a question.

"Maybe. What part of 'I'm not making those mistakes' didn't sink in, Tim?"

But Red's already maneuvering in the system to accesses the Batman Inc. mainframe (two months out of it doesn't make him rusty), covering his ass and his IP with some pretty nifty re-directs and encryptions (O will know it's him anyway, but he just likes giving her a run for her money because he still can ).

"So, tell me about the H.I.V.E douche bags. What did they want this time?"

"You want me to tell you about my cases but won't tell me about Gotham, huh?" It's a little bitter, but hey, he's not looking to be coddled. Red doesn't need that shit; he's got his own back now.

"I'd rather you tell me then break in your mainframe and read about it myself. I'm a guy that likes to listen, Baby Bird, you know?"

That makes an abrupt laugh jerk out of his chest because Jason. Really, just Jason. But, he did make promises, didn't he?

So, Red multi-tasks, uses another admin log-in to get around the authentication processes, generating a token to see how easy it is since there were people out there a lot better than him (Vic is such a douche-bag and won't disable the alarms because reasonsand "Gar has a point about you, Tim, you just need to be cool with them trying to take care of you and shit" and no fucking thank-you, Vic, Red takes care of himself just fine and eventually he will crack Vic's twenty second change encryption swap and then hack the guy's eye so Honey Boo-Boo plays for the next five days straight, just watch out when that shit happens, man.).

If he can get in too easy, then he's got to start coding more invasive security details and slide them in while O's busy being omnipotent and shit. While he works it, he gives Jason the breakdown and the guy guffaws too because like space/time fuckage is so original. He's as underwhelmed as Red had been, maybe more since he doesn't have the healing ribs to go with it.

"Well, to be fair, Timmy," Jason observes while Red's working to get a back door open. He manages it in an embarrassingly long time (like, six minutes, maybe he's losing his touch), coming to the main screen with new messages from the other crime fighters under the BI flag. "If you'd actually had some sleep and eats before the brawl, you might have gotten out of it better. Just saying."

A brow arches over the domino and, yeah, he needs to work on the sensor net because this isn't creepy **at all** . Red blows out a sigh through his nose as he quickly scans the message posted on the board from last week:

Out of Towner Protocols: **Update**

For any operatives in Gotham: log into the mainframe before and after patrol to verify status, enter necessary criminal activities, or report injuries. Help will follow. The emergency number is still applicable if log-in cannot be completed.

For out-of-town operatives: the new protocol requires frequent check-in and record of current status. This protocol is to assure the health and safety of all personnel. A new page **Weekly Check-In** may be accessed to record all necessary data.

Red blinks once, twice, and then clicks on the new check-in page. Each out of towner has a link and his/her pic by it (that's a terrible shot of Cass in the Black Bat mask, really, when did they take this?) and he picks out Red Robin with… he gapes at the odd domino and his hair everywhere because some asshole got a pic of him from the Unternet and put it on the damn…!

Babs, I am so crashing your shit for this he seethes to himself. Oh yeah, O and Steph were probably laughing their asses off because that suit was terrible and his hair was way too long and just reasons (the hair is still too long but, shit, he almost likes it now).

He click on it by rote anyway and get the error message profile deactivated . It's like one foot is out of Gotham and the other one is just rising to meet it. The realization jars him, more than when he had digs in the Haven, more than when he moved his things out of the Manor, leaving behind sundries that could be easily replaced, more than when he came into the new perch here in San Fran and thought it's not home but it **could** be.

"Tim?"

Red jerks abruptly because he's never taken the time to think about all that, has he? "I'm here."

"Don't get pissy. I didn't have to get into the vids of your Tower to know, man. We've met before, you realize?"

Oh. "Am I really that predictable?" Red stares at the error message for a long few seconds (some pain is a whole different level than the ribs) before hacking around with the password to get into Black Bat's and scanning her recent activity reports. B had been in doing the same thing, traces of his coding and skirting there as well.

A beat of silence and then Jason is laughing over the line. "Really? Kid, c'mon."

"Guess that answers that question."

"Well, your team has a list of protocols for you, you realize? Specific ones because you are that predictable. But, hey, I mean, really, who named these things? I bet it was Gar, wasn't it? Who names the door code ASSHOLE anyway?"

Red just pauses again, switching screens and putting an extra level of encryption on his personal medical file for just in case since Jay is all about digging and detecting apparently. "There's a story behind it, ask Rave some time. And yeah, I'm aware of their list." No one can see him roll his eyes behind the domino but that doesn't mean he isn't. "They don't try to hide it or anything. It would piss me off if they did."

"They try to take care of you since you can't do it for yourself," and that's just matter of fact and irritating. "Well, the word I'm looking for is don't ."

"I've lived this long, you know."

"Semantics. Take a good long look at the 'why,' kid. Not just you, though; all the Bat soldiers are self-sacrificing asshats. It's part of the requirements or something."

"That and to be able to rock tights, man."

"I had panties, asshole. I would have killed for tights."

"Quit your bitching. No one fired your ass."

"Meh, might've if I didn't die first."

A beat of silence while Red is back in BI, accessing the new checklist this time (a train goes by, it's the safehouse by the East Side). "So, what I'm taking from this convo is that I'm not coming to Gotham even though you need me, and you want me to regale you with how much I'm eating a ton and sleeping eight hours a night. Dick and Cass are totally doing fine, too because why shouldn't they be , right? That about cover it?"

"Who was talking about bitching? I could be calling you every night, Tim."

"Yeah and asking me shit like," Tim glares at the screen, "Number 4: have you sustained any serious injuries in the last forty-eight hours? Do you need assistance? Or, Number 8: have you taken anti-toxins in the 90 days? If so, which ones? Special Note: it is advised that you take new doses of anti-toxins every thirty days to attempt maintaining a consistent immunity." Bullshit. Ask the guy without a spleen about immunities.

Jason laughs a little, "dude, that's all O. Talk to her, not to me."

"This is an every night thing? Seriously, Jay? Some of us have day jobs."

"Well, some of us do reports and shit, call around to others so everyone knows that flowers aren't necessary. Did I mention that already?"

"Sure did."

"Then I'll say it again. Answer the phone once a week to talk about something that has to do with you , with Tim Drake and how he's not getting seriously fucked up without anyone knowing ."

And, oh yeah, there's more under that since this is all too much emphasis in one phone call. Someone's been talking to the Bats behind his back, or someone's been hacking a little too deep. Red's voice goes a little softer, full of steel. "Be straight with me, Jay."

" Kid . This ain't hard to figure out and after the long string of shitty nights we've been having, it's not a bad idea."

"I—" this should be about the cases he's working, about the data he's collecting, about the new information he's uncovered, none of this should be about whether or not he's eating or sleeping or hurt or…

"All right, Detective, test the waters then." Just as smooth as can be, Jason kicks right into his thoughts, "answer the damn questions and see if they're bullshit. When was your last fight or patrol? You've been in San Fran for two weeks or so, right?"

"Gang fight, last night," his brain is a little numb because he has no idea how this convo turned or why he's humoring Jason at all.

"Okay, injuries?"

"Bruises, nothing major."

"Yeah? Good for you, Baby Bird, nice work. Okay, when's the last time you ate?"

Uh… "Yesterday before the Titans left." What was yesterday…? Was that yesterday? Close enough.

The rasp of the lighter again, "get some fucking take-out or I'm calling Chinese and having it delivered to your Tower, asshole."

"Yeah, okay," whatever…Chinese did sound pretty good, actually.

"When's the last time you slept?"

And the ghosts come out of his unconscious mind, hovering over his line of vision, his chest gets tight all over again. "Saturday morning, about five hours," one of the Titan's mandatory movie days because they're all mother-hens and he can't do shit about it but deal.

"It's Tuesday, man. You get that, right?"

It is…? "Yeah, yeah. You want the truth or do you want me to lie? I slept eight full hours last night and had a three course dinner. Satisfied?"

"No, dick. Remember what I said? The whole 'stop being a pain in my left nut' talk?"

"I didn't—"

"No, you didn't. You didn't need to. See why the check-in is a good thing for people like us? You're just the case-in-point. One of us calls you every day because you forget shit like 'oh, days actually end, huh? Who knew?'"

"Smart ass."

"You already know it. We've met."

"I'm sure as hell not doing this every day, Jason. Not even with you."

"Here we are again, Tim, once a week. Be straight with me and I'll be straight with you, that's how this has gotta work. I'm not screwing around with a second chance. It's part of my nature. Besides, you back out on the deal and I'm gonna have to come up to San Fran and see for myself. Me and Dick aren't going to sweat embarrassing you in front of the kiddies. Like, at all."

"Yeah, I seriously do not want that." Don't come here.

"Then don't be a shit about this."

Red's frown is epic. Once a week. Once a week and he could keep moving forward. After a long moment of thinking, of calculating the possibilities of how much a phone call could hurt, of what kinds of concessions he would be needing to make to keep up his side of the deal anyway, Red finally takes a deep breath.

"Message received, Jay. The fam wants to know if I've got it together."

"No, dumbass. We want to know you're not hour 60 with no sleep and ready to pass out because you haven't eaten for days. I will seriously have Big Wing make borscht and force feed you, don't try me."

"God, man, that's fucked up," Red can't even control the horrified look on his face because oh God that shit is nasty even when Dick **doesn't** make it. "I think that violates the Geneva Convention or something."

"You dick," Jason just says fondly, "that's why you're on the short list, you know? It's not everyone that gets a personalized threat."

Red just sighs and shakes his head a little, "I know , man. I mean, it just makes my life when you give me a bomb in a box. Just, warm tingles all over."

"Yeah, that's how we show we care, Baby Bird. All right, all right, big brother talk over. One of us is calling you once a week if you don't call first. Deal with it." And, as much as it's a little too much like control, like make sure he isn't fucking up something vital, he's got little choice because Jay doesn't screw around with I'll come to you threats.

Jason sighs on the other end, sounding worn, "…and, shit, one last thing, Tim."

"Hit me."

"Dick…wants you to come the HQ, wants you there for the yearly."

Red's brows furrow over the domino, "uh-hu. I've already gotten the message. Like, four of them. Not going to happen yet."

"You need time. I get it. But, he's pretty on about it, so I don't foresee him giving up the bone. Just FYI."

"Thanks, Hood. I'll tell him to fuck off myself. Red out." He ends the call before something more starts Jay on another tangent of really uncomfortable, almost-kind-of-in-his-own-messed-up-way-of-showing-he-was-concerned spiel. Because, yeah, Jason Todd was one of those guys that if he didn't give a damn, he didn't call to attempt to make nice.

Twenty minutes later, an angry guy from the place down the street had to wait a little too long for regular dude, Alvin Draper, to hit the elevator to the ground floor. The muttering about the wait goes in one ear and out the other while Tim stares down at him with furrowed brows and a whole lot of what's this about now ?

He briefly wonders if he may have just triggered an attack by opening the door (but it's cool, he's got the remote in hand buried in his hoodie; one press and the lasers are going to start coming into play; the mini computer under his sleeve is already set with the ground traps, so eh, try it angry dude). Then the guy is shoving a bag, a big bag, of take-out right in Tim's chest with the receipt stapled to it before vanishing on his beat-up scooter, completely ignoring "Alvin's" protest that he hasn't ordered anything and that this is a mistake (but really, it's a huge Tower, how could anyone get it wrong ?).

The smell of Chinese food hit him like a punch and his stomach rolled. He sighs to himself but takes the feast back upstairs and eats out of cartons while still looking around BI for the recent reports in Gotham. In terrible restaurant person scribble is "I don't fuck around, asshole." Cute. In a creepy, stalkery (thanks, Bart) kind of way. But, just dumplings. Mad amount of dumpling and he's demolishing the carton of vegetable fried rice like you read about, not bothering to look away from the screen until his chopsticks are hitting the bottom of the carton.

He can see where the week has been shit because there's the usual activity and then the breakouts from Arkham (seriously, they should just build a new place because getting out is like oh, let me just wiggle this bar that's already been taken out twenty times before ) in the last two weeks since he's been gone. Crane is still on the loose, and Ivy, who has really made a hell of an effort to stay the fuck away from crime and the Bats in general, agreed to have a talk with Robin about the compounds found in the new Fear Toxin. Robin's notes are sketchy (because, well, he's a little shit), but Tim is pretty shocked to read how the kid actually believed she was honest when she claimed she didn't give Crane any of her old formulas. She gave him the address of an abandoned warehouse she used to do testing, told him some of the crates with her previous mixtures might still be there, and if so, that's possibly where the organic side could have come from.

The kid was going to investigate soon, put up his findings.

He and Dick were on for tonight.

Dick, who almost died. Again.

And he…he wasn't supposed to go, to be in Gotham because of the good fight. He was supposed to do his own thing wasn't he?

He eyes the Red Robin icon for a few sickening seconds and closes his eyes. It's dangerous to consider this (what part of you already lost this once hasn't sunk in?), but he's the strategist, isn't he? He's got to have a plan, he's got to have alternatives and prospective. There are ways to make this look like a good thing when he's really waiting for the real reason the Bats are keeping a closer eye on him comes to light ("I want my son back" but was I ever really? Dick is, Jason is, Damian is...). So if the Bats need to have a contingency, then so should he.

When he finally stands up, gathers the leftovers to go in the fridge (and probably not get touched), the Red Robin icon is active and Oracle is going to be pissed that she's not getting into her own mainframe for a few days.


	13. Chapter 13:We're Going to Die,Aren't We?

Bart is acting like one of those little yappy dogs on steroids; Cassie, Kon, and Gar are just watching the guy go from one spot to another like he's on the mother of all missions.

Once he's done, the remnants from last night's ice cream fight (totally blaming Rob for it) is gone, the nasty food left in the fridge from the last month is in the trash and already out the door, the dishes are all cleaned and put away, He's in the communal room fluffing pillows, running the vacuum (because Gar, really? The hair, man, just the amount of hair), tossing his own shoes in the hall closet, picking up random items (how can you just leave a lasso of Truth lying around like this!?) and just really making sure everything is as pristine as it can get with a Tower full of teenagers and infinite possibilities.

"All right, man, you just need to chill out, okay?" Kon steps right into his path, letting KF bounce off his chest with an oomph and back a few feet. "This is really not as big a deal as you think it's going to be."

Bart stand, brushes himself off and just stares back with immediate exasperation and a finger poking the guy right in the chest. "Dude, how are you even serious with me right now? Do you even know the last time—"

"All right, people, they just landed," from the stairwell, Red Robin is suited to the nines and he's in Gotham mode. Silent steps, a slight sway of the hips that could be a roundhouse back to your face if you didn't watch your shit, and the aura of don't mess with that guy, he's got plans if you do. The team takes a moment to inhale Red as he strides past them, adjusting his gauntlets and his face that serious one when they step out against the big bad calling them out for a fight. The air of something wrong makes everyone tense because this little visit was supposed to be just checking up, just seeing everyone and being cool. That assumption goes out the window since Red isn't giving any of Tim, not even a hint, under all that armor.

Meaning:

A) There's an assignment coming down that elevator

B) There's some really bad news that just makes shit get real

C) Someone forgot to lock-down the first floor (again) and some damn stray is wandering around the vents.

D) One his Red's "pet projects" made a move, and he's out as soon as this meeting is over.

E) It's oh shit time.

Bart gives a groan, "I haven't even—"

"Irrelevant," Red's brow arches up over his domino, his tone clipped and busy, his mind is turning already, "they're not coming to check out the décor, Kid."

He pauses a few feet away from the elevator, hands clasped behind his back and waits with creepy stillness that is all Bat. The team falls in behind him automatically, just in their normal formation flanking his sides. The muscle in Kon's jaw is jumping, ready; Cassie's chin rises a notch, her eyes cold; Bart shifts from one foot to the other absently, his fists working lose and tight; Gar's eyes are dangerously wild, ready; Raven keeps her calm demeanor but the aura is tangible, a pressure against their backs; the hole in their rank where Miguel would be is closed, tightened because everyone needed time off, but the six of them are still ready for the next big to hit their door. It's going to be something, the tight line of Red's shoulders give it away.

When the doors slide open, Superman is trying (not going to happen, Kal) to make Batman laugh with a terrible slew of travelling salesman jokes (Fuck, why did it have to be E) The **Batman** is coming to the Tower himself?! If anything, the five dart uneasy glances to Red). The Flash is standing at the back with a hand clasped tightly over his mouth because getting sucker-punched with a reinforced gauntlet is painful as hell no matter how fast you are, Wonder Woman looks patiently irritated and ready to get out of the damn elevator because really the unresolved tension would make anyone lose patience, and The Green Lantern is keeping himself occupied by making random shit with his ring because, you know, these two.

The sight of the Batman, all dark and menacing with his cape wrapped tightly around him so his next move is just a hey, surprise beat-down! makes the team get a little more shit, shit, the Batman (because, yeah, metas fearing the non-meta guy in a bat suit? Watch him fight and then talk). Kon hears Bart's pulse pick-up immediately even though Wally is right there. Red is cool as ice, his usual, and the rest seem happy to see the group in the elevator since it's been a while. However, the Batman…Nothing stops the team from shuffling just a little closer to Red's back when the Batman levels those whiteout lenses right at him; Kon's body loosens up just enough that he can move fast if he needs to, and only Cassie's hand in his back pocket keeps him from stepping up beside Red. He breathes out a long sigh that has Red's head turn slightly in his direction then back.

Supes, when the doors slide open and Batman is only responding with his usual gloom and doom thing, grins at the assembled teens and waves as the members of the JLA file out of the elevator. Smiles and easy motions; no one is dying today, and the elder heroes are moving in their formation to the protégés, drawing them out of uh-oh, FIGHT mode.

It takes longer than it used to, noted by Hal, Diana, Wally, and Kal, to make the, well kids but not kids anymore, stand down from behind Red Robin (of course they try to keep up with what's going on with the Bat kids, especially this very different version of Tim Drake that Dick has been talking about, worrying about, concerned about). The Titans have had their share hard knocks in the last few years, becoming more of a team than their predecessors; the fact that none of them really relaxes until they see Red Robin ease from his normal stance to let his arms hang by his side is a telling tick. A worrying one.

The JLA make the transition easier for them with easy smiles and hugs, getting into excited chatter, giving the younger ones an opportunity to catch-up on the latest— giving them silent permission to release the superhero in them and just be kids. Gar and Rave stand with KF to say hello to Wally and Hal, getting in on the usual gossip while Cassie greets Diana with a faint curtesy before they hug; Kon holds out a fist and Kal gives him an exaggerated eye roll before he allows the fist bump with a wide grin. It's an underlying message with the JLA to ease the Titans away from Red's back and into the communal area; he notices immediately, nodding to some of the heroes in welcome but doesn't move because, yeah, why would they be here just to hang the fuck out? Red isn't fooled but lets the JLA be good mentors since…not going to think about it.

The team finally necessarily occupied, the Batman cuts a direct path to face Red. Without a word, the leader of the Titans give a subtle nod in the direction of the back staircase and turns on his heel; the Batman takes that as permission to follow, silent and hidden in the folds of his cape. Their departure is noticed, Titans trading glances between one another, but are subtly distracted by the JLA when touch pads and wrist computers come out and the latest fight, cases, pics, touch football plans, next pot luck scheduled, and whatever else starts up between the superheroes.

Up in the Perch, the Batman stands by one of the windows, looking out at San Fran's skyline, very unlike Gotham.

"Black Bat is on the mend," he begins. "I stopped on my way back since I knew you would want an update."

Red doesn't sit, stands a few feet behind his old mentor facing the vid wall, pretending he's looking at something else because this is entirely too awkward; the Batman has been in Titan's Tower before (back when he was Robin) but not since he'd become Red (Dick in the cowl was here with the current Robin, but not this Batman. No, this Batman hadn't intruded on his space once the mantle of Robin, the designation of partner was taken).

Of course, he could be a jerk and point out how these things, these phone things were just the neatest inventions ever, but well,Batman. He doesn't do anything without a handful of motivations and even more contingency plans. It'll come out eventually because if anything, the Bat was never that great at keeping things from the only Robin that could read into the next plan, the next step, the alternative perspective. Dick could only predict Batman's moves to a point; Jason never read well enough; Dami still had difficulty separating the two; Red, though, Red and B were too similar and all those lessons came to a frightening fruition in the middle of a fight.

So, he'd bite. He'd do what the Bat wanted. "How bad was she?"

"…Not as bad as I expected. Cheshire was more interested in uniting the gangs in Hong Kong under one banner to do much damage." More than I'm happy with, Red reads by the tone and tightness of the mouth, "I've asked her to keep down for at least a week, but—"

"It's Cass," Red finishes with a shrug. "She's a Bat."

Batman hums in the positive.

"And Cheshire?" Because that shit is so on.

"Roy took care of it. She's back in max."

Dammit. Next time. And there would be.

"And Dick?" Something in him clenches when he asks since it's pretty fucking hard to shake up the Red Hood, but he keeps himself controlled, not-seeing the vid wall's passing news streams. He needs to do what B's going to expect if he's supposed to find out why his previous mentor is physically here with the JLA.

Gloved hands move and the cowl is going back, Bruce turning to face him. Red blinks behind his domino because what?

He takes in the reveal, however, and notes the guy is looking worn; it's a bad week when two of your children almost die but still, this is Batman, right? Red tenses automatically when he pulls the minicomputer from his right gauntlet and wordlessly holds it out.

Red is purposely cautious when he takes it, watching the unhappy tightening around B's eyes about it; regardless, he taps 'Play' and touches his domino to raise the whiteout lenses. A slight step back from B while a third of his attention is diverted to the vid, but Batman seems to understand, crossing his arms over the symbol and staying where he is.

The screen fills with a whole lot Batcave security footage in the med-bay area (more extensive than the last time he was there), Dick half out of the Nightwing uni on the table, arms restrained with the heaviest set, and the guy is fighting like fuck, twisting and turning with the effects of the Fear Gas. Mouth open with what's probably a lot of talk since it doesn't look like he's screaming out, more like angry snarling, fighting whatever he's seeing. Then Alfred is moving with speed, paddles in hand when Dick's body just drops back to the gurney and spits a mouthful of blood before the machines go flat-line.

There's no sound, but the movement from Dami still in Robin and Jason without helmet or domino tells him that's exactly what happened because Jason, Jason looks terrified and Dami's gloves are shoved in his own hair, body trembling like he's yelling. Alfred dives in, paddles on Dick's chest and the sharp jerk of his body up. Red's back teeth are grinding as he watches the second shock hit and Dick's eyes roll back, arms limp in the restraints. B is just right there, shoving the syringe right in Dick's pectoral before Alfred can give him another shock, but the expression on his face without the cowl is chilling because if anything, Bruce keeps his shit together when one of them are injured, close to dying. It's his default, to be stronger, like he could will his strength into one of his soldiers to keep the heart beating, keep the lungs working, keep them alive with his will alone. But if Tim hadn't known better, if maybe he'd have been there in person, he would have said there was a healthy dose of fear right there. That has a whole bunch of implications as to how bad the new formula is and any plans on a more stable, stockable antidote.

The feed cuts and Red straightens, handing the device back for B to affix to his gauntlet. He almost asks the hard question, thewhere were you when…? He's not completely heartless, however. After a second of silence, he moves toward his kitchen area, opens the fridge, and tosses a bottle of water over his shoulder. One for himself, he pulls out a chair at his table and waits, not looking up as he cracks the top and takes a cold drink.

"I was wondering why the JLA came with you; seems pretty obvious now." There's that mild tone, one with a whole lot of rebuke because the Batman is here, in his Tower.

B doesn't put his cowl back up, just pulls up the chair across from him and sits down as well; the half-smirk is tired, still the Batman's expression because he'll have to do back down there with the cowl and be The Batman for a while longer. The knowledge, the you're in **my** space, is there; B doesn't seem to care because the guy doesn't give a shit about boundaries when it's one of his sons and he has a whole lot of goals to accomplish.

"Kal must have heard some of the details. He showed up in Hong Kong with the others in the jet," shrug of those massive shoulders, "that happens in a group of metas."

And yeah, Red gets is because they have the same issues with mother-hens in their prospective groups.

"The things we do for them, B. Really." He drawls easily, watching every tick now that the whole face is revealed to him; but the small tells, the twitches he's trained himself to look for are surprisingly absent. B is being open with him, honest. The deception lines aren't showing.

"Preaching to the choir, Tim. Well, once they know you've got contingency plans to take them all out, they do become less suffocating. Just some advice."

The two exchange an amused glance and go back to their water because the tension is still there regardless of in Gotham or in the Tower, in masks or out of them. It's a weight pressing into the air.

"So?" Red doesn't need to elaborate.

The half-smile, however, is telling because here's the part where there's always multiple motivations for everything he does. And the folder that comes out (hidden in the compartment at the back of his cape don't think I don't know where you stash shit, B) isn't as heavy as, say, the file on the gang runners or the new "imports" into Gotham, but the thing still has some weight.

Red opens the flap and his eyes narrow immediately on the first color photo of Brother Blood and a map with satellite photos of the Church… With a small sigh, Red's eyes go from the paperwork to the Bat and he's going to have to look into the scanners again since B's obviously been monitoring the Tower's network.

Cool as can be, he just takes a drink of his water, "you used the League's resources, Tim."

With thirty coded lines and dozens of re-directs, asshole. Red's brow hikes up over his domino.

"Your hacking style hasn't changed. For someone that's worked with you like I have," the guy just shrugs.

"Cult of the Blood isn't high on the JLA's list or the Batman's." Red slides the paperwork back in the envelope.

"No, they aren't. The Cult is high on your list."

And…he can't help the old ticks when his head tilts just a little in question because what's that? The conversation from WE, the whole "I miss helping you on your cases, miss getting your help on mine" makes this strangely nostalgic (shit, he hasn't had that R on his chest in a while, get it together, dude).

"I'll check it out. Thanks." Non-committal, professional because dammit, after the last round of near-fatalities, he's been on the Cult like white on rice.

B hums a little, "I have more on some others from your database, the next time you're in Gotham maybe we can compare notes." Totally mild and unassuming, but without the whiteout lenses down, he can't narrow his eyes unnoticed.

"Hm. Speaking of Gotham, B. Hood called," Red deflects like he doesn't know B is already aware of it, "to check up, see how the last round of bad guy beat-down went, but he didn't tell me much about the apparently bad week you've been having. Was it you that told the Bats not to call me when shit started going down-hill? An extra hand around the city would have probably been helpful."

The guy just looks at him with the detective vibe going on, but he throws up both hands. "Not my call, Tim. I suggested getting you in on the communication part of the protocols because we have obviously been remiss in that area with you, but I didn't say anything to any of the boys about keeping anything back since it would counterproductive to the end goal. Talk to Damian on that front."

I believe it, that little shit. "Seriously? I'm going to stomp that brat. First, he calls me back and now he's decided he's not going to anymore? Get that kid some medication, B."

An eyebrow quirks at him, "there's a point to it that I can see."

Red blinks at him.

"Tim, you're my smartest Robin." B gives him the look, like it's obvious so use your brain, kid.

But there, that "my Robin" just hangs there too, isn't it?

"Yeah, maybe." He sighs a little, "I don't need benched. I'm not anyone's—"

"Responsibility? Dick mentioned it," and the not-happy-B scowl is absolutely righteous.

Red shrugs, "Before I turned eighteen, I was already an emancipated minor, B."

"I'm aware, Tim. It doesn't mean—"

"It means that I do what's necessary for the mission."

"It means that you always make the sacrifice play," Bruce counters, "and it's usually to your own detriment."

Now Red's giving him the look.

"So you get it honest," B shrugs, "that doesn't make it any better. Alfred, Dick, and now Jason are on my case now more than they need to be, and I'm dealing with it too. But…it's what should happen, I suppose."

"Are you kidding me? The Bat is letting his Robins tell him to play the game?"

And there's that small smirk, the one that happens when the cowl is on and someone does the whole underestimate the guy in the bat suit thing. It's odd because he has a similar expression.

"They care, Tim. It's that simple," B takes another drink of his water.

Am I'm supposed to believe that's why you're here? Like he doesn't know there's already a bug under the table and the chair, probably one on the window sill or in the blinds. There would probably be trackers on his suit if B wasn't already aware he kept his ones in San Fran in San Fran. His Gotham ones were a completely different design, different fighting capabilities, different security measures (none of which stops Rave from poofing in to reactive the sensors).

"That's good, B—" I'm genuinely happy your family has your back. Someone needs to, and he means that.

"Your profile is back."

A single, decisive nod.

"I'll thank Jason later for convincing you."

"He had a point. If the Bats aren't going to call me in unless they know my general status and cases, it seemed the next logical step." It also gives him an opportunity to stop the stalking shit, so he could be in Gotham without them actively seeking him out. Not logging in meant leave me the fuck alone.

"I appreciate it. Barbara, not so much."

A small smile turns up the corner of his mouth, but he drinks his water like it's interesting.

"She'll deal."

B hums with an arched eyebrow, "you're dealing with that fallout, Tim."

His return smirk gets a sharp edge because, well, they're in the theater now and who's the guy that wired the whole thing?

B hold up both hands off the table's surface, his I know nothing and will not be accountable.

"So? Walk me through the process. I need to know what to expect."

"I log in, do a check-in, and I'm open for Bat business. Pretty easy, no guess work involved."

"Dick wants a place in your patrol schedule."

Nope. "Not yet."

Those eyes light with something, an epiphany of sorts, become calculating enough that Red automatically tenses, getting ready for pain because that's the look of a finishing move, isn't it?

But B is just piecing together the evidence he's gathered, turning everything over from the talk in Tim's apartment to losing Robin, being fired just like he fired Dick all those years ago. This withdrawal didn't start until after Ra's kicked him out of the window, not even when his last call out to the Bats had gone unanswered; no, there is some other massive event he's missed out that turned Tim into the man he is now. Something else that has the teenager stepping back, stepping away, and to fight that compulsion, to get Tim back, B needs to know the what behind it. Coming to the Tower hasn't given him anything yet (except watching those kids downstairs back Tim like guard dogs, and eventually he'll have one of them come clean).

"I've never been good talking, Tim. You know that," B starts in a low tone.

Red immediately gets to his feet, ready to just jump out the fucking window or some shit because **what**?! His wrist is in that hand before he gets a step anywhere.

"Don't. Tell me why not with Dick."

And with all the bullshit he could feed Batman right now, Red, for once, does not lie, "I can't trust him."

"Can't or won't?"

Red stares.

"Fair enough." B's eyes are too calculating, too intense, making Red wonder what he's looking for now.

"Why are you asking this?" When the real question is why now?

"Because Dick doesn't know where to go from here. He's…lost, Tim. He's been lost for a while, and this," B's free hand waves to encompass Red Robin, "is giving him some direction, something. He was always better with you, he was always more with you there for whatever reasons he might have had at the time. It's not a new thing that he's…different. It's been a long downslide, but it correlates with the extended absences, the lack of your presence in the Cave, of you being gone. You've always meant a great deal to him, Tim. He's had to be stronger, better to be a good role model for you, to be your big brother. Without that…"

Red has an insane desire to put the whiteout lenses back down because he's got nothing for that. Nothing. And yeah. Years of looking up to Dick Grayson, of learning from him, fighting by him, believing in him with the whole big brother thing, being hisRobin for a while. Yeah, there was a whole lot of history and whole lot of pain… You're my brother, Dick. Of course, I knew you'd catch me.

"Shit changes," and that's Tim spitting out a hard truth, "and he's got Dami to big brother for now."

"Damian isn't you."

"I'm here to fight crime, B, not give your son direction."

"But you'll put yourself in danger for Jason and Damian, both who have actively tried killing you. Them, you'll give forgiveness but not Dick." And B's voice is deceptively mild, "I don't need your justifications, Tim. I just want you to think about it."

The gloved hand releases him, B still looking up at him like the Bat, the Detective, and the concerned guardian all in one expression. "November the ninth, 1:45am," B just rattles it off, "I was with the League off-world fighting an enemy race, Dick was still in New York tracking that serial killer, he'd gone black. Damian was in Hong Kong with Cassandra, and Jason was with the Outlaws. The Birds of Prey were down when the Clock Tower was compromised. Their net was down."

Tim, not Red, steps back, staring down at Bruce, arms deceptively loose at his sides because it was enough that they'd let him almost get beaten to death by not answering his call of help; he hadn't wanted to know more than that. He'd reduced his Gotham monitoring to sweeps twice a week after that, coming back to the Tower with a whole lot of pain and realization riding him.

But no one had been in the city anyway…

Bruce stands slowly, hand up, and takes those important steps closer, one of the gauntlets in his vision before the hand is on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A whole lot of something wells up in his chest, something that he'd locked away to be able to stand on his own. Tim just breathes in, forces away the good times when that hold meant pride and family and we've got you, kid.

"I had to know," Bruce's voice is soft, not the Batman, but just…the guy that couldn't make a damn sandwich to save his life and thought the washer had to be broken because how the hell do you work this thing ?! "I had to know, Tim." That hand squeezes his shoulder again because Bruce didn't deal with failure well, especially not when he failed one of his Robins…

Red smirks a little, "I guess we both do now, B." He steps out of the hold easily, ignoring the brief moment of regret in his mentor's (father's) eyes, "good to have the details." He steps away because he has to, he needs time to inhale this, to calculate if it's truth or carefully placed alibis or if really…

The mask, the one without the whiteout lenses and pointy ears, is already settled over Bruce's face before he even pulls the cowl on, activating the security on it again. "A good detective—"

"—needs all the evidence he can see and more that he can't." Red's voice is a little softer too.

The slight twitch to the Batman's mouth is his attempt at a smirk, and he turns on his heel to take the stairs back down to the communal floor, Red Robin walking beside him, spine still a little too stiff, still uncomfortable as hell, but there's something coming together. The evidence is indeed piling up, isn't it?

"By the way," the Bat says out of the corner of his mouth when they come into absolute fucking chaos . "Nightwing wants you to come to the yearly. You missed it last year."

Blinking behind his domino, Red's got nothing because shit like this always happens when he's gone for, like, five minutes .

The mini (fuck, really? ) tornado caused by Wally and Bart's let's see who can negate gravity because **why the hell not**? is making his wings blow in every which direction; Diana and Cassie are holding onto their lasso that are firmly roped around one of the light fixtures and laughing like fools. Kon and Kal are standing back to back in the middle of the fuck-storm with stop watches and matching grins. Raven is above the floor mediating and trying like hell to keep from frying everyone in the vicinity; Gar is below her with Hal behind the shield and cheering for their prospective speedster, throwing down bets on who's going to be just a one-millionth of a second faster.

Red face-palms immediately. When everyone notices the Bat and Red on the stairs, everything stops . Furniture hits the ground, dishes break, just utter fuckery and a whole lot of ooops faces meet the two.

"Why do we keep them around again?" Red murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

"Still trying to figure that one out," the Bat sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and manages to looks appropriately disapproving.

"Red," Robin's voice is slightly strained. The meaty thumps in the background answer that question. "Are you calling to talk about our last conversation?"

"Nope," Red drawls out, popping the 'p.' "I'm logging into the mainframe to check-in. When I do, it will send a text to you and Hood, let you know I'm in town and can take on Bat business."

"I see," is grunted in his ear, "it will prove helpful to know you are not sleep deprived and bleeding like a stuck pig as well. I could then debate on whether or not you would prove useful."

"You told the Bats not to call me in anymore, brat. You get what you get."

The guffaw is followed by a slight scream as that little shit probably punts a guy in the nuts because wow, wouldn't put it past him. "You still do not believe," and there's that creepy wisdom again, the person Dami should be in ten or fifteen more years, not now. "And only action will convince you if even then."

The sound of breaking that isn't glass, maybe teeth? Probably teeth, bones are louder than that on a one-way comm line.

"Don't get into—"

"Red. Do. Not." Now there's an ease down, Robin tying up his criminals. "I will provide you adequate evidence of my sincerity. The others will as well. We require time and your cooperation. You promised as much."

Little fucker, he knew well enough that Red would stick to a promise. He should never have given the weakness away, but well, too little, too late now.

"I'll stick by my word," is growled out with a sneer Robin can't see but can well image.

"Of course you will. It is in your nature." Then the bang of the grapple and wind whistling, "when are you checking in?"

"Now," in his Gotham perch, Red activates his status, "I've e-mailed you a case file. Have it read by tomorrow night. You and me."

"A case?" Robin's tone is more curious than questioning.

"You want to start on your list, this is where we begin. Meet me at the usual spot, bring the file."

He knows Robin is grinning that evil smirk because the kid likes a challenge, always has. "I'll be waiting, Red. Don't disappoint."

"Never do, Red out."


	14. Chapter 14: Crash

A/N: Because everyone in the cape and cowl crew needs to crash.

The wall is the only solid thing right now, pressing on his shoulder blades and the corresponding lacerations between them. He's…everyone has a bad night occasionally, even him. It's one of those. Technically, he should have been hanging out with the couch, eat cereal, and getting the fucking boxes in his closet unpacked (finally). But naw. He's sitting here getting blood on the wall, still in the tights, the suit, and just…

Blockbuster.

Tarantula.

Jason.

Bludhaven.

The Titans.

Red Robin without Tim Drake.

And fucking Black Mask.

It's been coming for a while, the eventual instances that he has to ask himself the question as to whether or not the good they do outweighs the bad.

And he feels like breathing is a struggle, like his chest is too full of the bad, like he's too used up to be any good now. He just lets the wall hold him up, allows himself to just slump, be useless, be empty.

And something is there, a noise in the background, then a head of dark red hair, dark eyes that used to be green, still were once and a while. Right now, they're blue, not as blue as Tim's or Bruce's, a lighter but more intense depth.

Intelligently, Jason hadn't touched him (good idea because Robin training), was just kneeling at one side of his sprawled legs, mouth moving, eyes taking him in from head to foot.

"…Wing? Hey, I need you to come back, okay? It's just me. Left the brat home. He can take a fucking pill. Hey, can you hear me now?"

Finally, the real world is filtering in, "what-?" 'Are you doing here?' We haven't been doing this thing in months. You weren't comfortable. I was fine with it. I could just be family if that's what you needed, fuck, that's never a question.

"Dick?" and there's a small smile there, "weren't answering your phone or comm, asshole. Isn't that a big 'no,no' on your list?"

And he can't say anything to that, just stare at his brother pretty much sitting across from him in his bathroom while blood oozes slow and slimy, itching now that he's aware of it.

"Hm," Jason just gives him another once over like he's looking into the guys thought processes. When he speaks again, his voice is almost an octave lower. "If I touch you, you gonna feed me your boot with a side of knuckles?"

Still, he's got nothing because maybe in the suddenly blown-out part of his brain (where he usually squirrels away the big bads and the failures and the fucked situations), he still thinks he did some major damage to one Jason Peter Todd.

He'd let the kid get acclimated to Robin, to figure out Bruce and himself before coming back to Gotham on occasion. He'd tried to let the kid he was to figure out his place, figure out Bruce. He'd been trying not shaking up the kid's sense of self in the ranks (since the old Robin showing you up is never the way). The anger and betrayal at B for replacing him didn't belong to the kid, and he tried—God, he'd tried so hard not to take it out on him because even then Dick realized how much it wasn't his fault…

Initiating a casual, sexual relationship was just another fuck-up on his part. He'd come to care about Jason (rage and all), he'd wanted to do something, anything to help him heal, to move on. He'd been part selfish about it because it had been a while and…

The nice cut on his back gives a sharp edge, bringing him back out of his own head again. Fucking Jason is pressing down hard enough to almost make him flinch.

"…me, Dickie. C'mon. Talk to me."

A second to clear out the fog, "I'm okay. Long…couple of shifts." And Jason could deduce he meant more than the day job.

"Well, you're not going to win Miss Gotham any time soon, Big Wing. I don't care how fucking cute you might think you are under the road rash."

A laugh, rusty and hoarse comes from the base of his chest, startling him.

Jason grins a little sadly and stands from his crouch. "What trouble did you get into tonight?"

"Black Mask is going to take a few steps back after this."

And that's enough said because now that the Red Hood was a foot out of the 'control the gangs and drugs' racket, Black Mask had taken a step back in.

The first thing that could spew from Jason's mouth might be are you fucking dense? Why didn't you shoot a text, asshat? Mother-fucking **Batman** just thinks he can roll out like that? You. Suck. Any combination really of them really. But Dickie…Dick was the first R, so his fucking precedent set the tone and all of them had their own versions of vigilante shock syndrome once and a while. Par for the course.

Instead of giving in to the urge of reminding Big Wing (again) what an asshole he is, the red-head just makes choices.

The sound of water trickles in, making Dick lift his weary head enough to look at gauntlets, gloves, and jacket coming off; then to the linen closet for fresh towels. Just looking at the haphazard mess would give Al palpitations. It's enough Jason is frowning hard; he used to pick up Dick's mess back when.

Not the time, Dick.

He vanishes out of the bathroom for a few long blinks while Dick gets some of his sense back to be able to wonder if this is a good idea, letting Jason take care of him like-

The guy has two pairs of sweats and t-shirts so the thinking pauses, mutes, something because the red-head is bending down, winding an arm around him to pull Dick to his feet without aggravating the wound on his back or the mad impressive road rash pretty much everywhere else (skill, just skill to get rash right in the crease of the damn) hip. And it's a crazy thing that Jason braces on his left side, remembering the bad knee, compensating for the initial give. Once the thing stretches, he can put his weight on it again.

And this is very déjà vu, even when in reverse: carrying one another's assess in through the window because fucking ow is going to be the mantra of the following morning, patching each other up (more Red Hood than Nightwing, natch). It's the domesticizes they managed to stumble into somehow.

Jason leans in to test the water with a hand and looks just slightly down to start peeling the rest of the Nightwing suit down his hips and legs. It's nothing he hasn't seen (the reinforced jock and underwear) or done (scarred fingers moving over the indent of his hips, down the outside of his thighs and calves) before, but the hesitation is there in the way his hand just rests on Dick's bare thigh, gaze slightly off to the left.

"I can manage, Little Wing." He only limps once while moving to the shower, leaving the blood trail on the wall without a shit to give. Stiff with old pain, Dick peels the last layers off and steps into the shower, ignoring the initial sting on the raw skin. He hangs his head to let the water run over him, sighing hard, bracing his hands.

The door slides open; he doesn't need to turn to know Jay's bare ass behind him. Maybe he's left the Red Hood behind for the night.

The arm comes close because the body wash is in the shower caddy hanging over the pipe. They don't need talk while Dick doesn't flinch at the minute pain of soap and Jason isn't still checking out his body, probably tracking out the new scars (he can't convince himself those calloused fingers aren't touching the newest ones knowingly). Dick just closes his eyes, gives himself over to the ministering.

Jay's hand on his shoulder turns him, pulls him slightly out of the spray, so the cloth can work the sides of his neck, down his collar bone, and ease over the his shoulder. Down his chest, careful on the bruising, and there's no hesitate this time. He just kneels down to reach feet and legs and hips, gripping the left one tight, keeping Dick with him and out of his head.

It works better than meditation or terrible movies. When Jay looks up at him with a quirked brow and it's the look that started after their first time, and that ass knows what it does. The fight had been epic, bloody, ending with Jay throwing the damn helmet and shoving his tongue down Dick's throat like a dying man. They didn't make it off the roof, jerking each other off in the shadows, stumbling back to a safe house to shower and do it all again like they're both horny teenagers or something. Three (four? Fuzzy on that part) times, wrapped around each other, mapping scars and sensitive places, mouths and tongues, teeth and hands, skin on skin. At the time, he'd taken it as a sign. Maybe Jason would let him back in, maybe even let Dick help him however he could.

It had taken a month for Jay to still be there in the morning…but, that look is still part of him, a testament to how far they had come in welcoming him back to the family.

The cloth left his feet and Jay is rising again, thumb on his chin to direct his broken gaze.

"It's one of those nights, Big Wing." Not a question, but Dick still doesn't need to confirm or deny. He just needs to keep breathing.

Jason's the one that dries him, wrestles boxers up his legs and over his ass before drying and dressing himself. Jason is the one that puts him on the sink and stitches his back, puts ointment and gauze pads over the road rashes. And he doesn't need to talk or justify, to quote the rules or theorize how he could have done it all differently. He does that in his head, a version of the younger Batman in his own voice critically replaying how shit should go because when he was Robin, when he was Robin… Jay's arm around his back slides him off the sink, pulls the sweats up his legs, shirt comes over his head, one of the few blank ones (trust Jay to forgo the Bludhaven PD ones). He leads Dick through the apartment to the kitchen, sitting him down at the island and pouring coffee from the fresh pot he must have made before coming into that bathroom. He puts the mug in front of Dick with only a pointed finger and already has his phone in one hand.

No hello, "I'm with him. He's good. Check ya later, Brat Wonder."

"Shit." Because—

"Yeah," Jay pulls a container from the fridge, opens cabinets for plates, and works the microwave like a champ.

"Shit."

"I believe we've established that."

"You know, in case it wasn't clear."

"You're the guy that went out against doctor's orders, don't blame the messenger, Big Wing." And he's grinning with his back pressed against the counter, waiting for the (nice smelling) food to get done.

Dick huffs a laugh back, savoring coffee, "I was ready. A week, Little Wing."

"Yeah, actually dying really gives you more time off than that, but semantics, you know? Maybe we should talk to B about setting up a standard, yeah?"

"You're an ass," but fuck if he isn't laughing when the plate lands in front of him and the smell hits.

"Someone's gotta balance your dumb assery, Dick. I've got an obligation here."

"Everyone exaggerates," the elder deadpans, "I am not some rabid hug-monster that coddles all the littles and follows the Bat Rules like it's my damn religion."

In mid-chew Jason pauses, gives him a patient look.

And because he's eating, Dick automatically picks up his fork, "hugs are great, man. If more people would just hug it out—"

"Hm. That's why every crime fighter in, gee, well, ever, trusts Dick Grayson*? Huh, I thought it was your ass in that suit."

And there's what Jay wants to see, a little heat to Big Wing's cheeks even though the guy totally knows already how fine he is and doesn't usually need reminding (it's a 'Dickie feels like ass' night, let him have something).

The two eat in comfortable silence, glad for chicken and rice in a bag because it's actually pretty good, and dawn is still three hours away, so maybe a few hours to sleep in…

"What set you off?" He finally asks, taking both empty plates and searching for dish soap. "The Fear Gas? Baby Bird? Lady Spider that is still alive regardless of my numerous offers to—"

"Nope. Don't kill anyone," comes from his mouth by rote. "Not sure. I just…"

Plates are set up to dry, the water stops running, and Jason Todd is boosting himself on the table right by Dick's hand, looking down with those blue eyes, taking him apart a little at a time.

"Yeah," the younger man reaches a hand and is pulling Dick into his side, easy, not restraining because well, he's been there before in his life, knows that sometimes (just sometimes when old demons ride you when you inevitably have to look back) easy is the way to go. And Dick moves willingly, pretty much letting his upper body drap over Jason's and take a full breath in what seems like too long. One hand is in his hair, blunt nails scratching, carding through, and it feels like he might be able to move again, pull himself together and just fucking move…

He may have nodded off or meditated into sleepy as hell because the next thing he knows, he's pulled to his feet, hand on his wrist, following the lines of Jay's shoulder under the t-shirt, watching the covers be pulled back, and the guy is just holding them up for Dick to crawl in too. Which, of course he does, scoots down to let the younger man curve around him, wind an arm around his hips and warm. Warm. Been cold for too long if this warm makes him relax immediately.

And it'll still be warm when the two inevitably shift in their sleep, and Dick's plastered to Jason's back with his nose right at the nape of his neck where the ends of his hair are just almost hitting. It'll still be warm when the sun is blocked from the windows, and they're laying facing one another, arms over the other, slowly coming awake with sleeps half-smiles. It'll be warm when Jason is the one that closes the gap to press against Dick from mouth to knees, and warm even when the clothes come off for the familiar dance of skin on skin, of touch and taste and noises...

It's still warm when Jason stays through the day and puts the Red Hood back on in Dick's apartment.


	15. Chapter 15: Fear

A/N: I've been so spoiled at AO3, so sorry about the formatting issues.

All things considered, demon brat can _take a fucking pill_.

Well, anyway, it's almost a Robin-rite at this point: being ditched by the bigger vigilantes (at least once). It goes right up there with rooftop tag, best one-liner wins, name that crime, guess how many stitches that will need, which Titan did _that_ fucked-up shit, and Russian Roulette for Replacements (still not funny, _asshole_ ).

Just so many good times.

However, in Gotham, you had to have _priorities_ if the cape life is the one for you, and Priority One is getting his shot at the big bad…because _Dick_. Dick had to be shocked back to life, had died twice on the table, and is still "off patrol." Well, one of them at least.

Before he called Dami, well, even before his new and improved encoding in the BI mainframe pinged him with a little heads-up that Crane had been spotted, Red fought with himself but had finally infiltrated O's security feed, going in under new techniques and style because he really _did not need_ this getting back to the Bats. He spent about twenty minutes checking out the guy's living room until Dick Grayson made a disheveled appearance from the hallway.

And just because…because _reasons_ , he'd waited until Dick went to the coffee pot with stumbles and yawns to disconnect the feed.

He was moving, so yeah. Then, just like fate would have it, Red gets _good_ intel: Scarecrow spotted last night. Not engaged. Still showing signs of being _ape-shit_ with his new addiction to fear.

Fucking. Sweet.

He changes up Red Robin in Gotham because _this_ and being tight for it. Wearing the domino in his apartment while the layers go on, the belt is checked again, the _other_ harness adjusted for a cape with a higher neck line…like his old cape. He cracks his neck and fits the gloves on before the gauntlets. Bo strapped to his thigh, backup fit at the harness section under his shoulder blades. He's ready to rock and ignores the fucking Batcomm still in the drawer; he's out the window as soon as full dark hits.

And the night air around the helemt's visor, snaking into his hair is a thing. Good thing. Inside the helemt, Red gives a little nostalgic grin. His phone is on silent, and the sensors in his suit are already on a loop feed of his regular heartbeat, O2 intake, all the readings of a healthy, uninjured Red. Tracking pinged on the South side in case any of the Titans check it out for shits and giggles, not to mention for Hood since that asshat can apparently hack them. If there's anyone Red doesn't want to see right now, it's any of the other Bats. This one is all him.

Ditch the bike a few block down and fly.

He swings closer to the shadows, out of the city's errant glow; making the extra effort usually goes the right way since Jason screams like a girl when anyone gets the drop on him (he does, don't let him tell you different). The other 1/16th of his brain briefly reviews the last five hideouts and any connecting points that might give a hint where the Scarecrow may be laying low (well, _Batman_ , so it's only a matter of time, right?).

Luckily for him, the dots are in _his_ old stomping ground (the large piece of the city that he could name every nook and cranny from muscle memory) instead of the sections he rarely used to patrol. He has several places already in mind, cross referencing Crane's habits, his testing methodology, his usual victims ('test subjects'), and an installation abandoned or densely populated enough for creation of the new toxin as well as any experiments the villain may be completing for a newer, more deadly batch.

Running through his mental rolodex is enough to keep him from focusing on the whats and whys behind this. A year ago, he might have considered called in for back-up, let O know this is the road he was going down for the night because, yeah, Crane, part of the Rogue Gallery for a reason. It's taken a lot, but they don't make him flinch anymore, second-guess. Those days are long gone, his brain kicking into 'counter-measures' whenever any of them steps up ( _should that make him a little sad or just relieved...?_ ). Johnathan Crane is just another one he would have to out-think; he would have to keep in mind, a doctor with the potential to do something _real_ , to fucking help people, and he turns his talents into a lifetime of mind-fuckery.

He thrives off traumatizing his victims, not outright killing them, but carving scars into their souls to make sure they're never really nightmare-free again. He uses his intellect for a whole lot of bad, and at one time…at one time, Tim Drake could have possibly gone down that road since, you know, the whole Captain Boomerang thing, right?

He hits a section of the tenament building to give himself a brief, mental shake _remember who you're going up against, dumb ass. Get the terrible shit out of your head before you do this._

"Right. Don't be an idiot. Bart will never let you live it down." He says to himself while scanning the run-down block, and his memory pops up a sign that used to be right there _Philmore's Pharmaceuticals._

"No way it's that easy." Because _Gotham_ , right?

Sure enough, he just settles low by the ledge for twenty, maybe thirty minutes (running through the list of DVRed television shows Cassie left him before she took off for the week; he had five to get through before they got back because _spoilers, Tim_ ) before two white, unmarked box trucks pull up the block and slide into the alley.

"Please tell me this is my life right now," he gives it a good five minutes before he moves.

 _ **This one**_ isn't his favorite. John Crane, masked as the Scarecrow, gets _annoyed_ with the birds; he was never good with children. Especially this special little brand; one of them usually leads the pain-in-his-ass right to whatever hideout he happened to carve out of the city.

This specific bird is the most annoying, the one with a reason to be cocky. None of them should have found him yet, not before the big reveal when half the country could just _feed_ his addiction with simpering cries and terrified screams. Oh, they were all going to fall into it, to _feel_ like they wanted to crawl out of their own skin just to get away from agony of terror ( _that's your son? Your daughter? Your mother? Your brother? Do you want so see them split open like ripe fruit, rotting corpses reaching up from the grave to drag you down? Rivers of blood and_ ** _all_** **** _of you will drown in it…_ ). He should have had the **time** needed to get the second trucks out of here before any of the Bat kin made an appearance.

And this _fucking little bird_. He **hates** this one, spent days talking with J about all the fucking birds, which ones they wanted to take apart, which ones they wanted to bleed (J is one up on him in that department; his neurosis over the one _that came back_ , taking victory right out of J's hands, get more intense every time he comes back…). J always wanted the first two strapped on his table for play time. And John, he wants _this one_. The one that flew away. A helpless thing screaming, re-living every loss, babbling all his secrets, cracking under the pressure, all that careful calm gone when the kid just gives the fuck in. It's a secret desire, to be the one that destroys the smartest Robin, the detective.

Getting Nightwing with the bio-tech wasn't nearly as satisfactory as it would be to get this kid on his table for a few hours, _a few days_ to coax every nightmare, every whimper, every inch of pain out of him.

Two of his men (not the best or the brightest, mind you) go flying overhead, slamming against the walls of the factory, one falling down on the moving conveyor belt because the machinery is moving, the ten separate strands of toxic venom made in the multiple over-the-counter medications that would soon be distributed all over the country; hundreds of thousands will fall to fear. But before that can happen, he's got this little problem to take care of, the one he hates above them all: the bird that is so much like the Bat. He looks like he's dead, just like Bats, no expression, no emotion in the parts of his face that can be seen. He's serious, no mess-ups, no moments of indecision. He's the dangerous one.

With the wicked scythe in hand, the Scarecrow laughs, and he stands in the middle of the working factory like he's the eye of the storm.

"You are very out of your usual element, Red _Robin_." Because he knows the real name, the old one. Of course, it had been a while since he's seen _this one;_ from all the reports that reached him in Arkham, the kid is a force unto himself now. He fights without the Bat, just a team of metas outside Gotham, on the Bat's _out_ list. Poor kid. So _apparent_. So _lost_. This little bird keeps himself standing when the Bats left him to fly or fucking fall. It's all so obvious just by watching how different he is than when he wore the R. And John, Scarecrow, Dr. Crane, knows how to make his weaknesses all about _fear._

When he speaks, the dozen henchmen still surrounding the cape stop, pause long enough to watch the boss approach, the scythe gleaming in the overhead lights as he moves.

"Am I?" Amused, the kid straightens with that wicked fast bo looking so deceptively loose in one hand.

"You _are_." Scarecrow waves a vague hand, scythe in the other, "where's your little _team_ of freaks, hm? Did they take a page from the Bat Book and leave you to your own…devices?"

And the white lenses hide the eyes, hide the calculating the kid certainly is doing. And the psychologists still in the villain comes to the fore while his men back up a little, make a space for the Scarecrow to face Red Robin without another body in the way. Of course _Bats_ are what they are, but everyone has a weakness, everyone is afraid of something or other, physical, mental, spiritual, all humans from the very first ones to roam the Earth, owned _terror_ , owned it down to their bones.

Red gives a disingenuous shrug, "I work better alone in Gotham. The Bats know it."

"Really? Is that the truth?" Scarecrow gives an unfunny laugh, distorted through whatever he's got in the mask.

"Yuuup, makes the whole _stealth_ thing easier."

One finger comes up to wave slowly back and forth in front of Red Robin, "who are you fooling, kid? By now, I _know_ the Bat, and he doesn't let _any_ of his little birdies fly without back-up. Not _here_." A small movement, barely a flick, and the trap is activated.

"Divide and conquer, Scarecrow. That's the way we roll."

And now, time to start the monologue because he would need a few important minutes for the toxin to set in; he would need to start cultivating the right feelings if this bird was going to feel the full affects.

Then, he has a moment of brilliance. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." The voice behind the mask goes low, "It isn't _your_ fault, you know. That you aren't _special_ enough for them, that they _left_ you. It's not your fault, is it? It's not your fault you can't be what they _need_. It's not your fault that you're weaker than they are." The Scarecrow paces around him, inside the ring of his men standing at Red Robin's back, and the minute amount of toxins he'd triggered to start surging through the room from the floor vents would be hitting the kid about now.

"I _understand_ that, Red Robin. I do. I was good enough to practice psychology but not be in the same league as my peers. I had to fight and claw to be heard, to be taken seriously. I had to do more, be _more_ in order to earn my place. If anyone knows where you are now, I do."

The minute sound of gloves tightening makes the man inside the costume grin to himself while his thug patrol shifts their weight, antsy to get the signal to attack.

"Do they even know who you are anymore, Red _Robin_? Or did they dump you completely when you stopped being the _other_ one? Did you give up _that_ cape on your own? Or did they _take it from you_? Because that kid...they replaced your with that murdering little bastard?"

The shoulders tense while the Scarecrow paces around again, to put him in front of the vigilante. And the lack of talk just gives the Scarecrow more reason to smile behind the mask because he's hit on something deep within the Bat clan.

"Honestly, kid. What do you really _owe_ them at this point?"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Crane. I _grew up_. Robin's a kid's role."

The white lenses are directly on him, the tip of the bo in Red Robin's hand resting on the floor, and he's given the vigilante long enough to be infected, for the effects to take place, and this, _this_ , is going to be such a show. Better than Nightwing, maybe even better than Red Hood who has volumes dedicated to his own brand of horrors, ones that were so sweet and brittle, cracking him _open_ _wide_. But no, making the level one of them give, finally realize the full extent of his own _fear_ , yes. Yes. It's going to be so good.

"Is it, now? Why keep the _Robin_ then? A little sentimental maybe?"

And he wants to see behind the mask, he wants the expression that's surely a hurt one, and he _wants_ to witness it, to see one of the Bats broken. He wants it so much he can almost _taste_ the pain coming off the kid.

"It's so other superheroes won't have to memorize a new _nom de guerre_." But oh, is that a waver in the dark tone? Yes, yes he thinks it is.

"I see. My _mistake_. Can't blame me for thinking they kicked you out of the Bat club. The Red Hood likes to kill, and he's still part of the family, so you can see where my curiosity on the ranks comes from."

"I got nothing for you, Scarecrow. So how about you give up the ghost and take a trip back to Arkham?" The kid tenses a little, but there's a slight twitch to his hand. "Make my night all _kinds_ of easy since we both know how it's going to end."

"Instead, why don't you tell me the reason you're _really_ here, Red _Robin_? This isn't your city anymore, is it? This isn't your _home_."

And these mannerisms from the old Robin come through enough for the kid to tilt his head a little, thinking about the question.

"I'm here," and the voice still deep, but a little hoarse at the same time, just what the Scarecrow wants to hear. "I'm _here_ …"

"Hm. Not sure now are you?" And he gets a little closer when the guy seems to falter, to close in on himself just enough for someone that's fought the Bats for _years_ to look for. The shoulders trembling just slightly, hand working around the staff while the other clenches and loosens by his leg.

"But the question, Red Robin, is whether you were ever really sure?" And all the study, the knowledge, the _know thy enemy_ , comes to the fore every time the Scarecrow meets one of the vigilantes. His monologue to Nightwing had been a work of art, convincing the masked man the entire Bat family was in their graves and he left to mourn, to weep over their new dirt beds while _he_ was the one about to go into heart failure. And he'd been so strong, fight the effects of the toxin so hard, so _valiantly_ , trying not to believe. If Robin hadn't interfered, he would have a dead Bat on his belt…

He still could, after all.

"How long has it been?" His voice drops lower, "How long since they fought the good fight with you?" And those horrible teeth, the scythe glinting as he walks because he needs to pull the fears, the insecurities _out_.

"I—don't remember," and the slurring is perfect, utterly delectable. "I—don't…They aren't…"

"They aren't going to catch you anymore. They don't care about you enough to now." And the face changes from that blank nothingness, the mouth drooping, the forehead smooth with disbelief, and if Scarecrow could see his _eyes_ , he would _know_ how desperate the kid is not to believe. However, neurological toxins combined with the organic compound from Ivy's old control potions just made this batch that much more potent on the Bat, no matter how much antidotes he's swallowed over the years. To this, he'd be just as susceptible as the rest of the population, a broken little puppet.

"And you're just going to fall. That's obviously what you've been doing since the new little Robin took over the name, _your name_. You've been falling, haven't you?."

Red Robin's pulse speeds up, his chest moving in short pants, trying to get a full, deep breath, and that horrific grin, just gets wider as Scarecrow watches, waits for it to take over in him—the _fear_ that even after all the history, he is on his own.

"I—I've fallen hard before," Red Robin admits in a whisper.

The Scarecrow hums, scythe coming off his shoulder easily, fitting in between his hands like he's always known how to hold one, like he could have been reaping from the moment he came into this world.

"That doesn't worry you now, Red Robin. You're so _accustomed_ to falling by this point. But, I know what it _is_ that you do fear, what keeps you up until dawn and you're safe from the nightmares." He's moving in on the vigilante now, grips tightening on the handles of his sharpened blade. "Red. Robin."

The kid's hand comes up to his grab the uniform over his heart, mouth opening in a desperate exhale to get enough _air_ , and of course he is, the toxin is filling him up to the brim, getting in his blood and viscera, making his very cells begins to tear themselves apart.

He looms, waiting for Red Robin to look up through the lenses of that mask.

"You're afraid you've driven them away, aren't you? _**What did you do to make them abandon you**_?"

Everything just pauses when Red Robin's horror-filled features turn to look up at him, his tone almost broken "I—I…" His knees must give out but the kid is still looking up, watching the Scarecrow raise the scythe above his head with sadistic glee.

"Whatever it is, kid. Some day, they might regret leaving you behind."

"They...caught me having sex in the Batmobile, Doc. I _betrayed_ Batman." That gives the Scarecrow a shocked moment to pause because _what?_

With a smirk, the gloved hand hits the right spot on his harness. Before the scythe comes down, the vents around them explode in fire and smoke and Red Robin is _laughing_ , laughing like he's just got a dose of J's gas.

"Seriously. I'm out of the family. Shunned! But, hey, best twenty minutes _ever_ , right?"

The scythe goes flying with a casual strike of the bo, a move so fast, the Scarecrow can't even jerk back an inch. The Bird shows off the smirk before he dives back into the three thugs without weapons like he's never had a moment's doubt.

 _Fuck, I could have had him._

"GET HIM!"

Is just a little too late because, you know, _Bats_. The kid is moving like water through his men, a liquid roll to his fighting technique that is reminiscent of the Dark Knight himself; Scarecrow take the few important seconds to dive for his scythe and activate the full traps hidden under the moving conveyor belts for when _one of them_ came sniffing around.

But he keeps talking, his weapon fitting into his palms, sliding and shifting in his gloves. "So where's the rest of the Bat family since they aren't with you? Mourning? At the _wake_? Tell me, kid, did he fight until the end?"

With Red Robin taking on numerous opponents with the two holding his arms, the scythe tastes flesh, just a skim, when the vigilante jerks in the hold, throwing himself over their heads and the two that had his arms with him. The move is precise, controlled, even with blood spewing thick from his leg, such a little upstart _Bat_ that Crane cackles almost _happily_. He jumps harder into the fray with his men while the sound of air escaping is the full onslaught of his latest four batches.

The vigilante dodges and strikes, a dance around the remaining thugs and the Scarecrow's own insane brand of fighting. The scythe's end buts him in the side while he's catching a punch, kicking out, and delivering a stunning palm strike; he doesn't lose his footing for a moments, a jump-spin over the moving conveyor belt brings him out of the blade's path while knocking the next on into it. The hissing scream as the blade tears flesh echoes against whiling servos and the soft _saaa_ of the bo.

The brat throws something from his assortment of toys, hitting the Scarecrow in the chest; the impact expands, making him stumble with the spray of _something_ hitting his mask.

"You're going to be so disappointed," the bo strikes hard with the whip of his wrist, "when he shows up," a grunt and another kick, " _helping old ladies cross the street_."

The knife is good; this guy knows how to use it. A professional because the _big bads_ always had to have at least one in their hodgepodge gathering of minions. Here's the guy that works the hunting knives like he was made for it, like the hilts are glued to his hand. Well, knives against a bo (and the guy is good, but he's not Jason) and he's already on the win side of the equation. He doesn't even need to get in range of the guy or turn from the one he's currently introducing to his shin. His free hand already has his own brand of anti-venom out of his belt, ducking down for a leg sweep, bo extended and a quick spray to the leg. It dries fast and gives a layer of protection because that blade probably has something on it. Knife pro is holding his broken nose. _Pansy. Walk it off._

Back in the belt and up, pull the bo back in, turn, next on the list.

"You little _fucker_!"

Back flip over, out of the path.

"Really?" Back of his fist breaks a nose, " _you_ don't like being drugged? Geeze, Crane," grunt and not from him, "that's the pot and the kettle, right?"

His grin is the last thing the thug sees because he's _out_ and it's just them. Him and the big bad.

"How are you feeling by the way?" Red asks conversationally while he squares off the that creepy mask, flashing briefly on the time before this ( _Batman and Robin behind him, still wary because he_ ** _knew_** _Bruce was alive out there, that he needed them_ ) while the scythe makes shiny circles in the overhead lights.

The mask just chuffs, a half-laugh, "Birdy…oh, Birdy."

"What? Thought you were the only one with a chemistry set as a kid?" And he's moving, closing the gap for some face-to-face because he needs to get Scarecrow's heart pounding, blood rushing, adrenaline pumping, and then… "The compound is already under your mask. You'll start feeling it in under five minutes."

He back bends like Dick, the blade coming almost close enough to get the tip of his nose. That one…little too close. His head isn't far enough in the game while trying to calculate. He hops up on the moving conveyor belt, kicking a box of pills out of his way, knees bent for the defense.

"What do you think could really _affect me_ , kid? There's enough toxins in my body to kill anything you have."

And that hideous mask is right there, pacing him, moving with the wicked blade. The sway, the movement doesn't throw either of them, Crane or Red Robin; like the vigilante, the villain is thin and flexible, fast and furious, with his own assortment of toys.

"It's a neuro-stimulant," Red grins, jumping up and over the scythe's swipe, the follow-up down strike "for your hypothalamus. So if you get a little _excited_ , I won't judge. Vigilante's Honor."

"Smart, Birdy. Negate the fear with an extreme opposite." He manages a blow to the side of the kid's head, giving him enough time to double-hand the scythe again, throwing the end behind Red Robin's leg, kicking out. The kid falls, bo in both hands to block. "It. Won't. Work."

"Really? It's also a nerve agent so I'm pretty sure this is a win, Doc." The bo and the scythe meet, giving Scarecrow the chance to try forcing the kid to buckle. It gives him the chance to come closer, put the mask right in the kid's face.

"I've always hate you _most_. Smart ass little _punk_. None of you fucking realize what I'm trying to do here."

Red grunts with effort, at a disadvantage with the Scarecrow on top him. "Uh-hu, I've always hated you because you're so small-minded. The Joker has better goals, you know."

"What the _fuck_ do you know you little shit?"

"Me? I know that you forgot the primary rule: watch your surroundings." And Red Robin abruptly shoves harder as the compound does it's job. The villian's strength is abruptly gone as the nerve agent infiltrates; Red throws back, hard enough for the Scarecrow to get beaned in the back of the head by a support beam. And (as he watches Crane pass the hell out on the moving conveyor)…he's thinking _wow, kind of disappointing right here_. Just a little, _was that it_? Kind of fight.

Red takes a few important seconds to lift Crane off the conveyor belt so he can start tying up the whole crew for the police to come fetch soon. The burning in his leg is a minor detail to gathering samples of the products to analyze while the call goes through to Jim Gordon's desk. Once they're lined up for transport, Red finds the main control panel and turns on all the ventilation fans so the police can come in without being subjected to a whole ton of _bad_.

He's slightly limping by the time he's jogging back to the main lab and snatching the old, rusted canisters just like Ivy told Robin. Gross. Some of this has to make it back for analysis (even though the Bats probably already have the breakdown since this isn't anything new), so he carefully sets out two (one for him, one for B). He moves back to the big "wall 'o criminal _everything_ ," watching the multiple security feeds from all over the installation and accessing the system. He helps out the GCDP by printing copies of the first distribution route, the second copy going into his harness along with samples of all the current strains.

The picture isn't pretty. Mass producing liquid fear into unassuming over-the-counter medications: the standard cold and flus at your local drug store, _have some terror with your antacids, really_. But, it's good. He'll monitor the cops chasing everything down while he does it himself on the down low.

The approaching sirens break him out of the Scarecrow's systems because _almost out of time_. Red snatches up the canisters and takes off for the back entrance; quick glance and no one's in the alley to see him shoving samples into his side bags. Good night, good haul, and the big bad is going back. He can go back, log in, and go into lock down. Fitting on his helmet, Red Robin has a plan and he's gone by the time red and blue is lighting up the old brick and mortar.

The bike jumps forward under his thighs, giving just the right amount of power to make the small hop off the street and into the secret passage half a block away from his perch; the thing is narrow, no room for a car by design (thirty-seven minutes approximately, hurry it up). He hadn't had the room to build a fully functioning one to lead into the sub-basement of his apartment; there had been too many other things on his plate at the time, including re-joining the Titans and redesigning his costume and wings, still searching for Bruce, trying not to deal with a hostile corporate take-over with the wrong kind of _hostile_ , setting up his own network of safe houses, communications, what he would need to fly solo.

This tunnel was more of an afterthought when he gave up the theatre in Crime Alley. At the time, the apartment had to suffice as his primary nest in Gotham, to house his equipment and what few personal items he still had out of storage.

Sparse lights give him an inkling he's on the path before the automatic door at the end opens up, spilling the underground garage light into the tunnel. His leg burns more noticeably when he arches, pulls the bike up enough to take the sharp climb, giving enough gas to make it; he ducks down at the same time so he doesn't skim the trapdoor. He slides the back tire sharply braking, sliding the bike right in the usual spot against the back wall and throws the kickstand down. Turns the bike off and sits back enough to let a series of cracks issue from his beat vertebrae. He stays on the bike for a few minutes, balancing the weight, pulling out his phone to turn the ringer back on…and _shit_.

A lot of missed calls. A lot of left messages. Two texts that he is really not going to read at the moment because none of that shit is from the team.

"Well. Fuck," he says to himself because _really_. The Bats will just have to wait until he's had a few hours to get all the shit from Crane's place unpacked analyzed (well, and maybe after he's had something to eat, maybe even a few hours sleep? Now that's funny).

Taking the side bag off the bike, he slings it over a shoulder, not even bothering to do anything more, just moves up into the garage with street access. He's got to get everything together before he sees them anyway because the rest of the night and probably into tomorrow is going to be a bitch- a step through the door and his lower abdomen tightens.

The punch is a good one, solid, professional, but Red went through a battle with the Wanderer without being touched, and he catches the punch in an 'X' hold by instinct, not even dropping the side bag.

"You. Fucking. _Dick_." Is not from the real Dick Grayson who looks pretty angry in his own right and making no move to get his fist back.

Jason comes out behind him while Dick stares his down from the front. _Yeah. Security. I should have already been on that, shouldn't I? Well, death dealers to stop and all_.

"I take it this isn't a run-of-the-mill visit." He comes back mildly to cover up the 'fuck, fuck, Bats!' that just suddenly fills out his brain pan.

"Arkham Unit went to pick up the Scarecrow," and, yeah, Dick's still in the GCPD uniform and finally takes his fist back. Straightening with hands on his hips. "Since no one _else_ has seen the guy, must have been you."

Red gives a sigh, "of course it was me." He holds the side bag casually against the bad leg.

"I repeat, Baby Bird. You suck _so much_ right now—" and the guy is looking up at the ceiling like he's asking for patience (Tim bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning).

"Thanks, really, Jason. You shouldn't have."

"And how many different strains—" Dick starts.

"Ten. Compounded in over-the-counter medications." He jiggles the bag slightly so the bottles rattle.

Jason jumps on the bandwagon, "And where the hell did—"

"Already have the distribution list of his first shipment. GCPD is probably on the way to interception now."

"How did you—?"

He taps his nose, "underwater aerators from Aqua Lad. The toxin didn't get in my system unless I ingested it or breathed orally." ( _Or got cut by a wicked scythe. Thirty-one mintues_ )

"Where was the fucker—"

"He set up in the north side, old pharmaceutical factory. How would I **not** catch that?"

"Fine. So how many—"

"About twenty thugs. Just the average."

"Stop answering the questions before we're done, smartass." Jason seethes a little, also doing the hands on hips thing.

"I have a lot to analyze," Tim comes back with a shrug, "I'm trying to make this fast."

Ah. There it is. Red bites the inside of his cheek (again) when Jason just does the whole, _washing my hands of your fuckery_ thing by throwing his hands up in the air, "fine, then. We'll do this upstairs then, so you can talk while you get that shit set-up."

"Coffee would be just greaaaat," he deadpans, already moving to take the stairs up to the perch.

"Do something to earn it, asshole."

"Pfft. I already did tonight, thanks."

"Dude, seriously—"

"Tell me you two are just fucking kidding, right?"

"Tim. If I was kidding, I'd ask something like—"

"I do not need any of your terrible traveling salesman jokes, Dick. Seriously, tell Clark he's not funny and move on. Get better material. Watch Comedy Central. Something."

"I'm not telling Superman shit. Why don't you tell him—"

"Already mentioned it. Who do you think sent him the 'Jokes for Dummies' book last Christmas? Amazon, man."

He hits the main floor, "lights, 40%" and right there is the fucking Batman. It really says something about the guy's skill when Tim's heart taken an immediate trip into his throat (even though he should be way passed being used to this kind of thing) because, well, _surprise_.

After he swallows his pulse a little more and has a moment not to think that, well, all four of them showed up and that… It's been a minute since he came home to someone in this fucking city. Strange, but at least they made coffee, so score ( _don't think about it. It won't last_ ).

"B, Rob, good to see you made it. I thought we were running Vigilante Anonymous at the Rec Center tonight. Hood apparently forgot the snacks." B's gaze actually goes to the guy with a whole lot of _what?_ before he realizes it's a joke.

"Red." It's the warning tone.

"B." Side bags set next to his system while he moves, casually around his place, ignoring the glaring directed right at him. He'd been right to go with the cape, hadn't he?

"…I'll write the report after I change, okay?"

That just seems to piss him off more.

"Instead," Robin just eases beside the Bat, arms crossed, "why not admit going alone was foolish and unnecessary. _Drake_ , you agreed to give us the cooperation we need."

Tim just blinks at him behind the domino and a deep sigh lifts his chest a little under the cape. "I have no idea why this is a big deal. Like, none. Double emphasis on _none_. I've take on a hell of a lot worse—"

Jason has no problem stepping right up into his face, finger pointing right at his chest. "Because, you ass-head, you're not supposed to be taking on the big bads alone now, remember? You got _us_."

With the angry Red Hood right at him, he just grins a little, "aw, are we having a moment here? We are, aren't we? Seriously, I cannot sing Kum-Ba-Ya without my bongos, man it's just wrong—"

"You're deflecting, motherfucker. Not. Gonna. Work." But Jason is failing at trying not to grin. "You shoulda called."

After a second, he gives ( _thirty minutes_ ). "Yeah, I probably should have."

"No probably about it."

"…I had it. I had the plan."

"Don't fucking care, Tim. You should have called."

"Okay, I should have called," he parrots back.

"Next time, you will, get me?"

And with that, he just shrugs. "Can't promise, Jay. You know how that goes, man."

"Then I'll pull a fucking B on you, kid. _Try_." With a whole lot of not-needed emphasis on _you'd better do more than that_.

Still, the corner of his mouth quirks, "I get it. Big Bads: call the Bats. Check."

"Good," Jay backs off and makes a shooing motion at Dick as if to say, 'your turn.'

And just. Fuck. Now, he's got all that attention, too. Great. He's not in for tag-team berating tonight.

Dick's eyes are the darker blue than normal ( _not fucking around_ ), narrowed and assessing. "Injuries?"

"Bruises mostly. I'm good."

Dick's brows raise, "define _mostly_. In detail."

"Did I mention the conveyor belts were moving? And he _totally_ knocked himself out more or less? I had _nothing_ to do with it. Trust me. I. Didn't. Work. That. Hard."

And because Dick doesn't veer from the keywords (like _mostly_ ), "Let's see—"

"It's good. Nothing an ice pack won't take care of."

"Timmy," and Dick is taking Jason's place up close and personal. Apparently the elder Robins want to have a creepy kind of moment tonight. "You want to get changed before writing up reports? That means you're hiding something. Like I've never met you?"

"Uh...?" Actually breaks through his brain to mind filters.

"You'd already be writing up stuff and putting whatever you've got in there on for scanning," Dick nods his head at the side bag, "you're hiding something."

He takes a second too long and Dick's already moving to slap the cape away from his side because that _fucking scythe_ and yeah, Dick used to be _Batman_ , right?

"Shit, your _leg_." Dick's eyes are wide, "how are you not even…? Never mind, okay, just, for the record, I fucking hate how well you hide injuries."

"Oh, like _everyone else I could name_?" Red comes back with a sneer, but he completely lets Dick take his arm and pull him to the kitchen table, sit him down. He takes the bottle of adhesive remover from his belt, applies it to the domino so he can pull it off, let the skin around his eyes breathe a little.

Jason accepts the First Aid kit from Dami (who also looks on the verge of _throwing up his hands_ ), "not about everyone else right now, kid."

B, managing to hover like _a fucking creeper_ , is looking down at him from that height.

"You, too?" And Tim manages to make it dry while Jason's pulling out what he needs.

B does the thing where he could be looking angry or disappointed or worried or constipated while his knees unlock and he sinks down to gently test the sliced skin. "I think Dick and Jason have made the point clear." Dami is trying to unobtrusively glance over the Bat's shoulder without making it look like he is.

"Are we certain of this? Drake has a propensity to be," he gives a vague hand wave, "…an asshole."

Jason looks up with a raised brow, "holy shit, demon. Did you just try to _make a fucking joke?_ B, give the kid a silver star."

"Just when I really _want_ to believe you aren't useless, Todd. You do _something_ to remind me…"

"Wow, I'm just so hurt, Baby Bat. Just don't gnaw my ankles off or something, 'kay? Eat your fucking vegetables."

Dick gives an impressive, put-upon sigh, "Really, I can't take you two _anywhere_."

Both younger Bats glare at him for a moment.

Tim's grinning a little at the banter, already unlocking the gauntlets and pulling off the gloves, discreetly taking note of the color of his fingertips. He doesn't even flinch when the prodding includes alcohol wipes, when the prodding becomes the in and out of a needle and medical thread through the skin of his leg. Eventually B has him prop his heel up on top the table to stretch the gash out, he rips up the tights more, ruining them because he takes a few of the armored plates out and tosses them on the table too.

The banter is...somewhat comfortable, even when he accepts the cup of coffee from Dami and the plate of pizza from Dick and the Bats are crowded around his table for the Q and A about the evening. He totally notices when Dami prods B's shoulder from behind, slides the plate closer to his right hand. Just the twist of his mouth shows when he pauses at wrapping up Tim's leg to take a few bites before going back at it.

"So, you set the charges and it did what now?"

Tim shrugs and downs the rest of his coffee, "it's my own compound. Crane didn't even realize I was wrecking his fear toxin at the time."

"So, you made some kind of chemical neutralizer?"

"Just for certain components," he waves a hand at them, "it's not an all-purpose kind of thing. Crane uses certain…uh, building blocks for his fear toxins, so take out one of those key components and the toxin loses a degree of effectiveness." He shrugs a little, glancing over when B finishes the bandage to his leg, covering him from knee to mid-thigh. Yeah, these tights are fucked.

"Efficient," Dami points out mildly.

"S'why I wasn't worried going in alone. Like I said, I had a plan." _Plans._ Gordon already knew about the traps in the control room.

"Still not okay with it," Dick interjects, standing to throw away his paper plate and snag Tim's empty mug from his hand.

"Yeah, I get it. I'll do the 1-800-Dial-A-Bat next time."

B hums around his mouthful of all veggies on his pie, "what did Crane tell you?"

"About…?"

"You said he tried manipulating you. What did he _say_?"

Tim stops, his face going eerily blank again, "Crane talks shit, you know that, B."

"I do. Which is why I'm asking what _shit_ he said to you, Tim."

Carefully chewing his bite, he gives a half-shouldered shrug, "he asked if the rest of the Bats were at the wake." Tim nods his head in Dick's direction without looking up, "asked if he fought until the end."

A growl rumbling from low is Dami's immediate reaction because well, _his_ Batman and all.

"Yup."

"You didn't eviscerate him. Good job, Baby Bird."

"I thought so. We had the usual witty banter, I'm his most hated Robin, he has big plans, we suck and don't _see_ the bigger picture, yada yada. The usual supervillain talk." His gaze is drawn down to the refill Dick's putting down by his plate.

"Fuck, Harvey is so much worse at that," Jason groans a little. "I mean, dude. Get _on_ with it already."

"The Black Mask is also verbose in his pointless monologues," Dami cut in, standing to throw his plate away (and slide another slice on to Grayson's while the guy was looking over at Jay; Dick picks it up automatically).

"Freeze always liked to talk," B throws in off handedly, pulling his gloves back on, fixing his gauntlets.

"Talker of all time: Mistah J," Dick nudges Jason who nods in solemn agreement.

"Right, Big Wing? That motherfucker should get an _award_ for pointless bullshit battles."

"The 'Your Monologue Blows' Award," Tim deadpans, earning a grin from both elder Bats (and B totally does not choke on his last bite of pizza a little. Nope.).

"I am so getting ideas now," Dick admits with a genuine, boyish grin. "We could hand them _out_."

"Oh God, a rating system, Big Wing. Your rant gets a three stars, better luck next crime."

"That's...terrible." Maybe this is why he started staying in San Fran more, right? Between Dick and Jay, the bad jokes are just painful.

"Isn't it enough we force them to return to jail," Dami just sighs at them.

"C'mon, Demon Brat. We're allowed to have fun _sometimes_."

And the kid just gives Jason a patient look.

"Fine, fine! Get a sense of humor, Little D. Make it a goal."

"Be less annoying, and then we may talk."

"I'm so hurt. Crushed."

"Hm. Be crushed somewhere else," Tim stands with his plate, mostly in uniform. The second cup of coffee is already gone, and he's ready to get out of Red Robin for the night ( _twelve minutes_ ). On the way back to the bedroom, he snags the side bags up, closing the door behind him to start peeling off the vigilante piece-by-piece (the tights, however, go in the bin for the incinerator because, yeah, they're done). He cleans up, ignoring the plethora of dark already blossoming under his skin and digs in the medicine cabinet for his antibiotics. With whatever could have been on that blade, infiltrating his system already, he needs to be prepared and also gives himself a general Crane antidote because, yeah, he already knows.

But the Bats need to be gone and he can be fine since he feels somewhat better in sweats and a t-shirt, cracking his neck again to work out the stiffness before coming back out of his bedroom. The Bats are suiting up to leave (which is a relief…and kind of a disappointment at the same time. At least he could do this in peace.).

"Glad you didn't die, Timmy," Jason ruffles his hair while masks go on and Dick is putting away the pizza in the fridge.

"Aw, you're just glad it wasn't someone other than you."

"See right through me as always. Good job tonight." And Jay's look is knowing because just _Jason Todd_ gets the whole need for revenge thing, doesn't he?

"…thanks, man."

Jason flips him a peace sign before fitting his helmet on, and B breaks up the party, "school night," and eyes turn to Dami fixing his domino, "and it looks like you could use some rest yourself, Tim. I'll drop by and get some of the samples later. We can divide them up for analysis, see what we come up with."

So absolutely casual that Tim falters for a second (since, you know, they all came just to see…if he was all right) but nods slightly.

"Good point, B. 'Sides, I wanna see this nifty little neuro-toxin you've got on hand kid." Jay gives him a salute before he's out the open window.

Dick throws a wave from the door, already fitting on his uniform hat, "I'm saying it again, Tim. _Yearlies_. It's that time. Hope to see you there."

Dami as Robin looks up at him from behind those lenses, "we have a case to figure out, Drake. Get enough rest that I won't have to ply you with enormous amounts of caffeine." And since his window is already open with Hood out and Officer Grayson closing the door behind him, B stands right there looking down at him from behind the cowl while Robin ducks out the window.

"I...am not comfortable with this," odd that it's Bruce coming from the Batman this time when he's seen the inverse more; but, he can't fault his old mentor's instincts. "You should come back with us. Just in case."

A small smile makes Tim Drake look more tired, older than he was an hour ago. "Not...not yet. I'm good here, Bruce."

"Tim. It was _Crane_."

"Believe me, Bruce, I know. And I am good to go." Not technically a lie, but...the guy's arguing with him like when he was just a teenager, doing it because, yeah, Bruce wanted to do the right thing by Tim Drake.

"At some point, I hope I can convince you to come home. Even for a visit, see the changes that have happened."

 _Home_.

"Heh. Tell Alfred I said hi." Tim turns enough to let the illusion of Bruce just _vanishing_ hold true, and his apartment is empty when he turns back. And he has just enough time to make it back to his room before the tendrils biding their time in his system begin to rear up behind his eyes; he vomits spectacularly in the toilet rather than on the floor. Could be worse.

The spray on his leg only delayed the inevitable, and now that they were finally _gone_ , he could give in and shake apart.

Early (or late) that morning, Bruce is sitting in front of the big computer, watching the footage from the moment Crane hit the factory's power and the camera started recording. With Dick and Jason behind his chair, leaning against it with their attention on the screen as well, Bruce sighs deeply with the back and forth between Scarecrow and Red Robin. His scowls deepens at the line of questioning. At the very weaknesses Crane is prodding. For him, that's _two_ sons John went after.

The next breakout was going to be his if the Scarecrow didn't get a visit in Arkham before that.

Dick's eyes soften when he sees the slight curve of Tim's shoulders when he (plays? Maybe? How much of his reactions are _real_?) closes in on himself. The footage doesn't show his face, just his back while Crane circles him, taunts him with the whole abandonment thing; as usual, it's jarring when one of the big bads pick out dissention in the ranks. Worse, when it's used against one of their own.

Jason twitches guiltily with _"The Red Hood likes to kill, and he's still part of the family_." (Got a point, doesn't he? Motherfucker. _That. Mother. Fucker._ ) And Dick's fingers unconsciously find the back of his hand on the back of B's chair, not looking away from the guy in the center of that thug ring. Then, the Batmobile thing just makes him turn away and choke, trying not to laugh in front of B (Dick is almost _crying_ , seriously). Jay needs to take an important second to marvel at the apparent size of Tim's _balls_ to say that shit to Crane. But when that dumb ass gets brained? He lets himself laugh.

Fucking. Priceless.

"All right. I'm heading up," Jay shakes his head a little. "You in for the day, Bruce?'

"Soon," the man in front of the computer glances at him, "something else to check, then I'm in."

"Dickie?"

"Ah, going back to my place. Laundry day," Dick stretches once, cracking a long line of his spine; behind Bruce's back, his eyes meet Jason's, brow quirked, and the two already have an understanding without words. Jason winks at him and turns back to take the stairs, arm thrown over his shoulder.

"Bruce, catch you later."

"Night, Dick. Get some rest."

The eldest son is already yawning, walking out to his motorcycle parked with the others, "yeah, yeah."

Once the two are gone and his Cave is quiet again, Bruce activates the cameras he set earlier in the evening, bringing up the live feed of Tim's living room and hallway on screen. He may feel just a small amount of guilt for it, but the Batman has demons with a helluva lot more power riding him than this. He just _can't shake it_. When Red Robin jumped down from the conveyor, the hitch in that leg.

He expects the black and white to show nothing, maybe a light on somewhere. Instead, his third son laying mostly on the couch in his living room, the floor on some sort of lock-down with some kind of reinforced blinds over the windows. And Tim, Tim is obviously screaming, body arching off the cushions while the cords in his neck stand out from the force of his shouting. Not even a blink and Bruce jolts as the images hit him, out of his chair, as close to the screen as the console can let him. Tim's body jerks while he rears back to try breathing, sweat matting his hair in the high def camera image.

And Bruce, the man that never really does, yells, "Fuck!" because he didn't act on the signs until too damn late _again_ to avoid pushing his son further away. He spins on his heel, already jerking the cape and cowl off to see —

Alfred is right damn behind him with sweats, t-shirt, and running shoes; the butler's brow is arched, eyes darting up to the screen. And there's the biggest secret of the Bats: the only one that get the drop on the Batman is the butler.

Bruce doesn't even pause, just starts throwing his uniform pieces in his chair, throwing on the clothes Alfred holds out. "I need—"

"I have already packed a bag, Sir. The current anti-toxins we have as well as your digital equipment to analyze Master Timothy's blood."

With the shirt mostly on, hopping on one foot to shove his other in a shoe, Bruce manages to give his oldest friend a raised brow.

"Please, Sir. Allow me _some_ credit."

In one of the daytime cars, Alfred hands two bags through the driver's side window. "I shall see Master Damian to school and that Master Jason sleeps a full six hours."

"Eight." Bruce corrects, firing the engine.

"Hm. I am exceptionally _competent_ , Sir, but not a miracle worker."

"All I can tell you is _try_."

"Very good." The butler flicks invisible lint off his jacket, drawing the younger man's eye from _my son is screaming by himself, dosed on fear_.

"Should he become worse, call me, Bruce."

"I'll bring him back if it looks like the same strain—" _that one that almost killed Dick_.

"Good. _Go_."

He has no idea how much time has passed, but there's sparse light coming in through the window. Fuck if he doesn't feel like shit.

Tim utters something that could be a groan if it was a little more together and if his throat didn't feel like raw hamburger.

A brief and hazy slideshow of what the past however many hours was made of passes over his vision, makes him take a few long minutes to huddle back down and shake like the fever is on him. It had been a while since he's been forced under Crane's influence like this, and he really didn't need a re-visit to remember why he fucking hates it. With another groan, he pulls the comforter back over himself and—

 _Comforter_? He was on the couch, right? Yeah, he doesn't do the whole fear coma thing in his personal space (it's a _thing_ ), he'd had time to get the straps dug out between the cushions and from underneath, get his ankles and one wrist before the hallucinations hit. No matter what anyone else says, Batman is the only one that can get himself out of restraints while riding the fear toxin train.

Tim throws the blankets off, and he's in his bedroom in the perch, eyes moving wildly for any sign of someone...

The paper on his night stand flutters, stopping abruptly when his shaky hand snatches it out of the air.

 _Already out of your system, but take the medication on the bathroom sink._ _No patrol for you. Anyway, call me when you're up._

 _B_

 _Tim, we need to talk_.

His legs feel like rubber, gives him a bad case of the _fuck, fuck, stay up_ when he stumbles into the bathroom and his antibiotics are just sitting on the fucking counter next to a smaller bottle of pills. And just...fuck. He'd left the cabinet open, his stash probably the first thing Bruce fucking saw.

"Shit."

Okay, no problem. He needs a shower and some Trip Advisor to get on the first plane back to San Fran (or shoot Kon a text if nothing's leaving in, oh say, the next hour). There's a whole lot of questions that might be coming, and he's for sure not in the headspace to give answers ( _are these really antibiotics, Tim? You can tell me. Everyone was there for Roy when...Say, B. Do you remember that time when you were just kind of lost in time and I told you I'd done some stuff to find you…?_ )

Nope. No thanks. That's a conversation he isn't having today (or possibly ever; there's way too much _you did_ ** _what_** _now for the League of Assassins?_ ), and conviction is enough to get his legs more solid under him, gets him to turn on the shower and pointedly ignore the taped plastic wrap already around his leg that Bruce had probably done before he _left_ so Tim could shower without needing to do it himself. He ignores the momentary insanity that had felt a lot like a hand moving through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp when he was covered in blood and he'd actually managed to pull that _motherfucking boomerang_ out…

"Fuck." The water is warm when he shoves his face under the spray and comforts himself with trying to focus on the next step ahead, rather than the ones he's already left behind.

A/N:...the ending sprung from my brain pan just sporadically. It originally ended right after the little bonding thing, but then Arkaedia (who puts up with my nonsense, and I love her face for it) gave me:

'Oh, you're writing a Scarecrow fight. Then...write a Scarecrow fight.' And my brain clicked. It just did.

Then:

'What if the BatFam found Tim's pills and assumed he's on drugs? The whole story will have to come out.'

Heh. Brilliant.

Ah, I'm copy/pasting this story from my profile on AO3 /users/wintersnight/works. I have a fic pile called "Distractions" with other things from the Fracture!Verse, so thanks for checking it out.


End file.
